Cradle and All
by Rhiannon A. Christy
Summary: When a rash of heartbreaking murders breaks out throughout London, Sherlock is called into investigate. With both John and Molly at his side, Sherlock works to capture the monster hell bent on harming London's most precious citizens. Along the way Sherlock discovers just what is the most precious to him. Sherlolly
1. Preface

**!.!.!.!.!.!.!.!.!Warning!.!.!.!.!.!.!.!.!**

_**Read before reading!**_

_** Author's Warning: Please read this before continuing on, because after this point I don't want anyone getting upset and sending reviews telling me that this bothered you, because you have been warned.**_

_** This story will contain several triggers! So, if any of the following upset you, make you nervous, or simply do not want to read about, turn back. I would rather have little to no reads than upset any readers.**_

_** This story will contain: Mentions of violence towards children, child death (though it will not be graphic.) Mentions of physical abuse, sexual abuse (again I will not be graphic with it because I can't deal with that myself) Mentions of alcohol and drug abuse.**_

_** Please, if any of these things bother you don't read. I would never read anything that upset me, and I would never make any one read something that upset you.**_

_** I'll also put a tissue warning on it.**_

_** You have been warned.**_

_** If you don't have a problem with reading any of those subjects, then proceed…**_

* * *

Preface:

There was a dripping in the distance, the faint plopping echoing throughout the warehouse. The place was cold, and as dark as one would imagine hell to be. The only other sound besides the water that could be heard was the faint sound of cars several streets away.

"Where's Mummy?" The words of the child slurred, tears slipping endlessly down a soft cheek. The child squirmed and fought the blanket that had been wrapped tightly around him. Two slim arms stilled the little boy, pulling him in closer.

"Hush now, and drink this." A cup was placed at the boy's lips, and though he tried to resist, the milky substance was poured in his mouth until he could do nothing else but swallow.

The crying lessoned as he was rocked back and forth, the soft 'shhing' noises soon turning into words.

"Hush, baby, my dolly, I pray you don't cry…"

* * *

A.N: Ok, short, but as I said I didn't want to get into real detail when it came to this. As you can see this is the theme for this, but I won't have a lot of scenes where we see the murderer like this.

This story will be Eleven chapters plus the preface, so Twelve in all. I have the whole story already plotted out so all I have to do is fill out the chapters and edit them up.

This is of course not going to be Season 3 compliant, but I've already worked too hard on this that it is just going to have to remain that way. Plus we don't get S3 until mid-January here and I don't want to wait.

Also as you could tell I'm American, and though I have tried my best there will be things I get wrong. Please don't yell at me, if it is something glaringly wrong just PM me and let me know, don't shout at me because I don't do that when other writers get something about America or the South wrong. We are all human and we get things wrong, we make mistakes.

I'm going to go ahead and post the first chapter with this one, so I'll have it up in just a moment.

Next Chapter: Sherlock works on an experiment, John packs and gets annoyed, Molly talks with Greg, Sherlock is excited.

**Disclaimer:**** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	2. A-tisket A-tasket

Chapter One: A-tisket A-tasket

* * *

Life had surprisingly gone back to normal after Sherlock's return. Admittedly it had taken awhile, but Sherlock was once again back to being the world's only consulting detective, and a trusted, if not disliked, one at that.

Well normal was a relative word, John mused, mostly when it dealt with Sherlock. He laughed and shook his head at being proved right.

Sherlock was supposed to be helping him gather all the rest of his things that had been scattered about the flat. After the "Fall" John had only packed what he would need on a daily basis, always figuring he could go back and retrieve the rest of his possessions at his leisure. Something that Mrs Hudson had assured him of. Only every time John had even thought about stepping foot in 221b he felt an all-encompassing panic grip him. He simply told himself that he really had no use for anything he had left behind; he could always just buy or borrow what he needed. And for a time he had.

Now, with the need to watch his spending, being married and all, John found himself back at 221b with several boxes to be filled. And a bothersome ex-flatmate helping him pack, and by helping he actually meant nothing even remotely resembling helpful.

"Sherlock?" John walked into the kitchen where, not surprisingly, Sherlock stood fiddling with some experiment of his instead of boxing John's books like he had promised he would.

"Kitchen murders, John. Do you realize how many items people normally have stocked in their pantries that can be used for murder?" Sherlock didn't look up from where he had his eyes practically glued. John sighed and just shook his head once more. Some things just never changed.

"Like bacon perhaps?" John crossed his arms over his chest, his nose twitching at the rather strange smell drifting up from his shirt. The shirt that should have been clean, smelling of a crisp spring valley, but instead made him think of pork products.

"Don't be ridiculous John." Sherlock waved his hand absentmindedly, his eyes still taking in the collection of spices and objects in front of him. It wasn't the first time that John would ramble off something random and totally irrelevant, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.

"I'm not being ridiculous Sherlock, what I'm trying to do is get you to actually pay attention to me." Sometimes John felt like stomping a foot like a child, but he doubted if he set himself on fire that Sherlock would pay attention when he was working on something. Nothing could catch his attention unless it was something he found interesting.

"You don't need to make asinine comments to do that. So, go on then, you have my attention." Sherlock sat back, his whole attention on the other man in the room.

"It was not…fine, Sherlock, you wouldn't perhaps know why my shirt smells like bacon?" John plucked the fabric of his sleeve, waving it about a bit as though to bring attention to which shirt he was talking about.

"It was an experiment." Sherlock waved him off, turning back around to his latest experiment.

"An experi…never mind. Why couldn't you have just used one of your own?" Oh, John could feel a headache coming on. It wasn't a new reaction to Sherlock's antics, and they were antics. Though John guessed he was just glad he wasn't shooting up the walls again.

"I didn't really relish the idea of smelling like bacon." Sherlock really hoped that John didn't throw such a tantrum when he found out about the jumper he had "borrowed" the week before, like he was his shirt. Really, the thing was hideous anyway. Mary had mentioned her hope that it would end up ruined in the wash. So John should be grateful to him really.

"Sherlock you can't just go around….."

"Yes?"

"Never mind." John stopped himself from throwing something at Sherlock, say a brick or two, and simply made his way out of the kitchen. He doubted he would be able to get the smell out and figured the thing would just have to be tossed in the bin when he returned home. Which he really needed to be soon, he had promised Mary he would be home before seven.

* * *

Like Sherlock, life had continued on for Molly. She continued to work at Bart's, assisting Sherlock when requested, going out with her friends on the weekends, and even had started up a friendship with Mary, John's new wife.

After the "Fall" Molly found her relationship with Sherlock growing into an actual friendship. No more of the stuttering, mousy Molly, too shy to speak a full sentence around Sherlock. And no more of her being used…well not much anyway, though at least Sherlock was rather more open about using her. Oh, she still had feelings for the man; she knew she probably always would; but she had resolved herself to the fact that she would never be anything more to him. Surprisingly, Molly was alright with that.

Nothing had happened to upset her life, nothing until the bodies of small children began to show up on her table. It wasn't the first time she had to work on a child; it was just a fact of life that children died, whether it be from natural causes, illnesses, or murder. But never had she encountered the likes of what she now faced, child after child showing up on her table, all murdered by the same person. It was more than she could take.

Molly looked up from the body she had been in the middle of examining when she heard the doors to the morgue fling open. She had expected to find Sherlock blustering his way into the room. She knew he was supposed to be helping John pack and she knew that at some point Sherlock would make some excuse to get himself out of it, and he would most likely end up bothering her for the rest of the day.

The smile she wore fell though as a solemn looking Lestrade walked slowly towards her, his hands stuffed deeply in his trouser pockets.

"Please tell me there wasn't another one." Molly's hand clutched to the edge of the table, her fingers pressing tightly against the stainless top.

"I really wish I could. He was found this morning, just like the others. Only five years old this time; Bobby Page, his parents reported him missing two days ago." Greg gave Molly a soft smile. He knew the murders were upsetting her, hell they were upsetting him. He had come across cases with the victims being children before, but this was something altogether different. Four children, all murdered the same way, unless they caught the monster he knew there would be more.

"Are you sending him in?" She had done the post mortems on the others, and she doubted it would be different this time.

"I hope you don't mind, Molly. I really don't trust anyone else on this case, and well…" Greg shrugged his shoulders as if to say; "you know." There were times he missed the way things were before the whole 'Fall' debacle. He never thought he would miss working with the bastard, but he really did.

"You really need to talk to him. It is obvious you need help on this one, you know he could help." Molly stepped away from the table and removed her gloves; Mr Walker would just have to wait.

"I know he could. Hell, he would probably have this case closed by the end of the day. I know that, you know that, but you also know that I've been forbidden from ever allowing him near a case again. It doesn't matter what I want, I just can't." Everyone was still sore about Sherlock's involvement on cases. Though Greg thought it had more to do with hating the fact that he, a novice in their eyes, successfully solved cases that they couldn't.

"And how many more children will die, Greg?" Molly knew she was practically begging, but she hated the fact that more children would die all because of a bunch of bruised prides.

"I know! It is just…well maybe, could you…" This had been the actual reason he had come to see her. He had been thinking on it before they had even found the little boy that morning.

"Could I what?"

"Maybe talk to him. You could leak a few details about the murders; let him take a look at the body." It was silly, but he hoped Molly would play along with him.

"You are not seriously asking me to do what I think you are, are you?" Molly leaned a hip against one of the lower tables in the room.

"Yeah, well you could you know. I could even accidentally leave a few files around, and you could just happen to see them…" Greg looked anywhere but at Molly, though he didn't need to look at her to know the expression on her face.

"Why me?"

"Because he likes you?" It came out a little more of a question than he had wanted.

"He likes you too Greg, even though he would never say so." And she new he wouldn't either. Sherlock had trouble letting John and Mrs Hudson know how much they meant to him.

"Molly please, I'm at my wits end on this case." He finally looked her in the eyes, his lips practically pouting.

"No, you do it. I've been in enough trouble when it came to the last time I helped Sherlock. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to repay Mycroft for what he did; I would be out of job were it not for him. But this time if I'm found out I doubt even he could keep me from being chucked out on my arse." Well, maybe he could, Mycroft knew some scary people and had a lot more power than he liked to let on.

"Molly…"

"No, you are a big boy, you can do this. He's home right now, helping John pack so I'm sure he would be more than happy to start right away." Molly stepped up and after placing her hands on his shoulders, forcefully turned him around.

"I'm going to regret this." Greg ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he allowed Molly to push him out the doors.

"Make sure you check over Page thoroughly. Contact me if you find anything new." He turned back to look down at Molly, giving her a small smile.

"You know me Greg; I'll look into everything I can." Molly smiled back, though she knew it looked forced. It was hard to give a genuine one when talking about a murdered child.

Greg nodded and left, leaving Molly to her work. He was going to get into some big trouble allowing Sherlock near the case, but something needed to be done. Four children were dead and they were no closer to finding the murderer than when they found the first child.

* * *

John closed up the last box, his packing finally finished. It was amazing the sort of things one accumulated over the years. He had actually forgotten he had much of what he found in 221b. He packed it up, even though he knew Mary would throw half of it away.

Sherlock was still in the kitchen and John could just make him out muttering about needing a way to test various poisons. At least he was keeping himself occupied; of course it had only been day since his last case. John knew by the next morning he would be shooting or blowing something up out of boredom. Hopefully he wouldn't be anywhere around by that point.

"John, open the door. Lestrade has finally realized he needs my help on a case."

"How do you…" This was one thing that John never missed, the randomness that edged its way close to madness.

"Everyone has a very distinct way of walking; I can hear him coming up the stairs. And Lestrade doesn't just visit, so if he is here there is only one reason, a case he can't handle." Sherlock looked over and gave one of his arrogant smiles.

A knock on the inner door interrupted John before he could say anything. He blinked a moment before standing. When he opened it he wasn't surprised to see Greg. It seemed everything was really back to normal.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Kitchen." John pointed to the kitchen, though he noticed Sherlock already coming their way.

"Sherlock, I need…"

"What is it this time? Disappearances, no evidence, murders with no obvious cause?" Though he was talking about crime and murder, Sherlock was smiling.

"Four children have been found dead." Greg spoke flatly, his face just as straight as his voice.

"Age, sex, appearance?" The smile was gone from his face, but you could still feel an air of excitement about him. He hadn't worked on a proper case in some time; it would be nice to get back into the game.

"That is the thing; there is no apparent connection between the victims besides the fact that they are all children. There were three girls and a boy; twelve, ten, eight, and five years old. No connection even in appearance." Greg held back the shiver that he felt rising up his spine. It had been easier for him to work such cases when he was younger, but now with children of his own it pained a certain place in his heart.

"How were they found?" Everyone could already see the wheel turning in his head. It was in the gleam of his eyes, the quirk of his lips.

"The same every time. They were wrapped up, swaddled actually, in a blanket with a teddy bear tucked into their arms. It is eerie; they almost look to be asleep when we find them." That time he couldn't suppress it, each time he had hoped to find the child merely sleeping.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, his eyes going almost blank as he cataloged the information in his mind.

"Asphyxiation. There are bruising patterns around the nose and mouth. It looks like the murderer used a cloth held over the child's face. Tox report shows large levels of a store grade sleeping aide. As far as we can figure the murderer forces the children to drink the drug before suffocating them."

"Who do you have doing the autopsies?" Sherlock looked at Lestrade then, his hands slowly falling down from his chin.

"Molly, of course. She should have the fourth child soon, though I doubt the Tox report will come back with anything new. Where are you going?" Greg watched as Sherlock moved quickly across the room.

"Bart's, where else?" Sometimes Sherlock wondered how Lestrade ever became a DI, asking such obvious questions.

"I hope you know I could lose my job for this."

"Noted, but I also know you need me. So, should we not be going?" Sherlock waved at the door to the stairs as if to invite them to leave.

Greg and John stood there in the kitchen doorway as Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf and headed down to catch a cab.

"He hasn't really changed has he?" Greg peeled his eyes from the retreating form of his friend and focused on the man beside him.

"Not much. But you know Sherlock, what has changed he won't allow anyone to know. Mrs Hudson says she hears him screaming sometimes at night, but every time she comes to check on him he is awake and sitting in his chair." It bothered John, knowing his friend was in that much pain, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing that Sherlock would let him or anyone else do about it.

"I wouldn't have thought Sherlock would have night terrors." It was strange thinking of the rather extraordinary man as suffering from something as common as nightmares.

"If there is anyone in the world that would have them, I assure you it would be Sherlock. He isn't as cold and unfeeling as he likes to show the world. But don't ever tell anyone I said that." John looked half amused and half worried at Greg.

"Lips are sealed, now come on, I wouldn't put it past him leaving us here if we take too long." Greg headed out of the flat leaving John standing there surrounded by filled boxes.

"Mary is going to kill me. She really is."

* * *

A.N: Alright, so here is the first chapter. I so really hope I got Sherlock right, he is such a complicated and extraordinary character, and I was nervous about writing him.

We get some Sherlock/Molly interaction next chapter.

Also, sometimes I like to add little references to some of my favorite movies, books, songs, so on and so forth. I have at least two in this story, one being in this chapter. Though I'm sure several if not most know it, all those that send me the reference with where it is from I will make a Tumblr post and rec a story from each of you. If you don't write I'll rec your blog or at least put your name down if you don't have that either.

Next Chapter: Sherlock and Molly talk about the case, Sherlock makes a deduction, John and Molly talk, Sherlock scolds John, Sherlock offends Molly.

**Disclaimer:**** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	3. Mama's Going to Buy You a Looking Glass

Chapter Two: Mama's going to buy you a looking glass

* * *

Molly looked down at the child on the table, Bobby Page. As a pathologist she had to have a certain amount of apathy, it was an important attribute for someone in her line of work. It wasn't that she was unfeeling; nothing could be further from the truth. It was more a safeguard. One could not do their job properly if they were sobbing over every body that came in. Still, Molly was finding it hard to fully step back lately. And it all had to do with the recent rash of murders in London. It was hard not to feel sad when children ended up on her table.

Even knowing that if anyone saw her she would be reprimanded, Molly ran a hand down the face of young Bobby before setting back to work. Only ten minutes later she was interrupted when Sherlock barged his way in the room. Molly smiled; she knew Greg would eventually break down and go to him, no matter what he said on the matter.

"This him?" Sherlock didn't acknowledge Molly more than a simple nod of the head; still it was more than he would have done at one time. He knew she wouldn't take offence. They were working, it wasn't time for pleasantries.

"Yes, Bobby Page, age five." Her smile turned almost grim as she watched Sherlock work, snapping on his gloves and examining the body like a cardboard piece of a new puzzle. Molly had seen him work like this before so this was not a new thought. She had tried on several occasions to think like that, to see the world as one great puzzle, and everyone in it just another piece to be put in their proper place to create a complete picture. It made her head hurt, it was one thing to process information in that way while working, but to live like that was enough to drive anyone crazy.

"How long has he been dead?" Moving around the table, Sherlock took in every detail of the child, from the obviously expensive haircut to the slight roundness to the body indicating an over indulged child.

"Not long, I'd place the time of death at around midnight." Molly fought the shake of her head, the child should have been tucked safely in bed sleeping peacefully, but instead he had been in the hands of a monster.

Sherlock bent down, his face going close to that of young Bobby as he examined the bruising along the child's nose and mouth. He ran a single finger along the purple marks before slipping his own hand up to cover the child's mouth like the murderer had done. Molly watched on with a feeling of unease. She had heard what some of the others at both Bart's and the Yard had said about him, that he would one day be the cause of the body on her table.

Everyone was capable of murder; he had told her that many times, that even she had a breaking point. She had refused to believe it, but she knew now that he had been right. She had been precariously close to her breaking point the night he had come to her for her help. She knew that she would have snapped had Sherlock actually died, and she often wondered now if she would have actually killed a man. The image would pop into her head then, of Sherlock lying dead on her table, and she knew her answer. Yes, she would have torn Moriarty limb from limb.

"Lestrade said the others had a large level of sleep aid found in their blood. Is it the same with this one?" Sherlock removed his hand and stood straight, though he still didn't look to Molly. Things had changed between them, he had always been comfortable around her, and that had not changed. He couldn't place it, but there was a restlessness that had crept into the comfortableness. He wasn't sure he liked it.

"Tox report won't be back for a while yet, but I doubt it will show anything different." That was one thing she was at least grateful for, not one of the children would have felt a thing.

"How high are the levels, enough to kill a child?" Sherlock slipped the gloves off with a snap, tossing them into the bin. Pulling out a small black notebook from his inside pocket, Sherlock made a few notations before flipping it shut and replacing it.

"No, but enough to knock them out quickly." Molly gave a short look towards the child, catching herself before Sherlock could see and turned towards the paperwork on a table across from her.

"So the child was most likely asleep when the murderer smothered them." Turning around Sherlock found himself a bit surprised to find Molly's back to him. Her eyes normally followed him when they were in the same room, it unnerved him somehow to find her eyes occupied elsewhere.

"I would suspect so."

"This sticky substance, was it found on the others?" Sherlock waited until Molly turned towards him fully before pointing to the corner of the child's mouth, his finger near but not touching.

"Yes, it's just milk and the sleep aid. Their faces and much of their clothing tend to be covered with it." When the first child had been found they had hoped the substance would be revealed as something more traceable. Of course things such as that could never be simple.

The doors flung open for the second time, Lestrade and John pushing their way into the room, looking out of breath and very, very annoyed.

"You could have waited, Sherlock." Lestrade pressed a hand to his stomach, he knew he was a bit out of shape, but this just seemed a bit ridiculous.

"I could have, but you were taking too long." Sherlock gave them a fleeting smile. The same one that John had wanted to punch off his face many times before.

"Two minutes!" They had been two bloody minutes behind. Not that Lestrade wanted to sound uncaring or anything, but the child was dead and not going anywhere.

"As I said, you were taking too long." He waved his hand and turned back towards the body and Molly.

"Best let it go, you'll never win." John laid a hand on Lestrade's shoulder. He knew what the DI was feeling at that moment; because he had felt it just about every minute of every day he had lived at 221B.

"Fine. Well Sherlock, what've you got?" Taking a few steps forward Greg tried not to actually look at the child. He had seen him at the crime scene and he really couldn't stand to see him again. His dreams were already taking a disturbing turn as it was.

"Not much, I'm going to need to see the reports. So far I can tell you it's a woman, most likely in her mid-twenties to early thirties. A mother, or had been a mother at one time." It was looking to be a rather more interesting case. It wasn't that women never committed murder, but there were fewer of them.

"A woman? How can you tell that?" Lestrade chanced a glance at the child then, as though he hoped to make the same deduction as Sherlock had.

Sherlock looked over to Lestrade and gave a great huff. It still annoyed him when people couldn't see the obvious.

"Yes, a woman. Let's start with the most apparent shall we? The bruising pattern along the mouth indicates a small hand with long, slim fingers. Oh, it could belong to a smaller built man, but you said the children are all swaddled, as though tucked into bed with a teddy bear." Sherlock cocked his head, actually hoping that the DI would understand without having to have it explained.

"I'll give you the hand, but I don't see how that bit with the blanket indicates it is a woman." He tucked his children in at night most of the time, unless he had to work.

"Molly, besides the bruising around the mouth and nose, are there any other signs of violence against the victims?" Sherlock sighed; it really was too much to hope.

"No, there are a few light marks on one wrist, like someone had held on to them too tightly." Molly felt like patting herself on the back at how calm she sounded. She was a bit shocked that Sherlock had asked her instead of just blurting it out himself, which is what he would have normally done.

"Most likely when she took the children, dragging them along." Sherlock mimicked the murderer's actions by taking Molly's own wrist and pulling her a few steps forward. After a moment he released her hand and looked at Lestrade with lifted brows.

"Alright, I still don't see…"

"Of course you don't…look the children are all cared for in great detail, our murderer has even gone to great pains to make sure the child does not suffer any. That is why she doses them. They are all cared for with the care of a mother." His eyebrows seemed to lift higher before falling just as he rolled his eyes at the obviousness of it all.

"You said this woman could be a mother, if she had children of her own how could she stand to hurt someone else's?" Being a father himself, he couldn't stand the thought of harming a child. How could anyone blessed with children wish harm on them?

"How can a woman kill her own children? It has happened. I need more information, but the way the murderer has cared for her victims would suggest she had no desire to actually hurt them. Maybe she lost her own child; maybe these murders mirror that child's death." Sherlock's eyes took on that strange glassiness that they always got when he was thinking.

"Right, so where do we go from here?" Lestrade shrugged his shoulders knowing that he wasn't going to get anything more out of the man, not when he looked like that.

"You are going to go and get me those files; I'm going to be in the lab with blood and stomach content samples. Molly, if you'd please?" He nodded his head at the woman beside him, a slight smile on his lips.

"Oh, oh right, of course I'll have samples sent down to the lab right away." Ignoring the others in the room, Molly turned to gather what she would need to gather the samples.

"Thank you Molly, if you'll excuse me." Sherlock pretended he didn't see the way Molly's cheeks turned bright red at his words and left for the labs.

"A mother?" Molly allowed her cheeks to cool before looking down at the child again, her hands filled with equipment.

John and Greg gave a look towards the body on the table and then to Molly, neither of them knowing quite what to say. Not about the case or about what they had just witnessed between their two friends.

"Well, I best be off then. Tell Sherlock I'll drop off the files as soon as I can safely get them out without being seen." He was uncomfortable enough as it was, he didn't want to stick around to see what would happen next. He never could take the cold, clinical cutting of a body during a post mortem.

John assured Lestrade he would before beating a hasty retreat himself.

* * *

When John entered the lab it was to find Sherlock leaning back in a chair, his hands steepled under his chin. It was such a normal sight to see that John paused at the door for a moment. He had missed Sherlock terribly, believing him dead was like having half of him torn off and destroyed. Even though he knew that he was alive, had been all along, John couldn't stop the fear that it was all a dream. That he would wake up one morning to find Sherlock well and truly dead, his body cold and moldering in the ground.

"Lestrade says he will have the reports here as soon as he can." John finally took a full step into the room, the door closing behind him.

Sherlock just waved his hand at John without a word before resuming his position. John sighed and sat down at the end of the table. He knew that look, there was nothing short of the lab blowing up that would rouse Sherlock when he looked like that. Even then John wasn't really sure that would get his attention. After ten minutes Sherlock, still not looking at him, sat up straight with a strange expression on his face.

"There is something familiar about this case, about the way the victims are all killed. I've seen it before, but I can't place it. Damn!" Sherlock slammed a hand down on the table before standing up and pacing a bit. All the while John remained in his chair, watching as his friend marched up and down, back and forth until after a while Molly walked through the lab doors, samples in hand.

"I thought I would bring them myself." Molly smiled a bit nervously as she held out her hand holding a small cooler.

"Thank you Molly." Sherlock snatched up the samples and turned to start working without another word.

"So, I best get back and finish up." Molly fought the blush she knew was quickly lighting up her face and nodded her head at Sherlock's clear dismissal when he waved a hand at her. Some things really didn't change, though unlike before she wasn't hurt by it. She knew she mattered, but he was already deep into what she called detective mode and he just couldn't spare any thought to anything but the case. And at that moment, if ignoring her helped him find and stop the woman killing all those children, she wasn't bothered by it.

John watched Molly walk out of the labs after Sherlock waved her off and followed to make sure she was alright. Everyone knew how she felt about the man, and how much his behavior always hurt her.

"Hey Molls, you doing alright?" He had spoken to her before about Sherlock's behavior, though the last time had been the Christmas where Adler had been found, well the woman that had been thought to be Adler. Though he had been mostly occupied with caring for his obviously grieving friend, he had made time to stop by Bart's to talk with Molly.

It had been uncomfortable, but he had held her while she cried on his shoulder. He had patted her back awkwardly, whispering what he hoped had been words of comfort. He had been conflicted, he had wanted to go home and pop Sherlock upside the head for how he had treated Molly, but he also had been so worried for his friend.

John had tried to speak with her one other time, after Sherlock's presumed death. She had known the man, loved him, and somehow John thought he would feel closer to Sherlock if he could just talk to her. Only Molly had refused to speak with him for the longest time, it wasn't until Sherlock showed back up very much alive that he understood why.

"I'm fine John, thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." Molly gave a little half smile. John was a lovely man, Mary was very lucky. She would be lying if she said that she hadn't thought about him at least once. He was not the devastatingly handsome man that Sherlock was, but he was cute, and loyal. It had been those thoughts that had stopped her from going to his flat one night a year after Sherlock's "death." He was cute and loyal, like a puppy, and she refused to use him for comfort.

"You sure, I mean you don't have to pretend with me." John had seen how Molly had calmed around Sherlock, but he also knew she stilled loved the man, so it never crossed his mind that she wouldn't be hurt by his actions anymore.

"I know I don't, but I'm telling the truth. I've known him long enough now to know when he is being purposely callous. I can't lie and say it doesn't bother me at least a bit, but it doesn't devastate me." The half smile turned into a full one, her eyes going to the doors behind John.

"You know he really does care for you? Mostly after everything you've done for him after the…well after." He shrugged his shoulders, even after all this time he didn't like talking about the 'Fall."

"I know he does, he's made it pretty clear often enough, even though I'm sure he doesn't realize it. I am still in love with him, but I've also come to realize that it will never be returned. And I'm alright with this, we are friends and that is enough." With that Molly placed a hand on John's arm and gave a squeeze before turning to return make to the morgue.

John watched her go before turning back around. Though when he did he found Sherlock leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I know you care about her wellbeing, but I would thank you to not meddle in our friendship." His words were drawn out, as though he had to force them off his tongue and through his lips.

"Says the man that ran every manner of background check on Mary before telling me I was allowed to marry her." John crossed his own arms, he still couldn't believe it. No, no actually he could, but he had really hoped after everything Sherlock wouldn't be so…well Sherlock.

"Yes, well, I think after Moriarty we are all a bit more cautious." Sherlock waved a hand as though that would make what he did anymore acceptable.

"Sherlock, did you actually think she could be the head of a criminal organization?" Mary? A crime boss? The thought made John laugh.

"No, but she has the eyes of a murderer. Wouldn't want you marrying a Black Widow, now would we?" He wished that John would just drop the subject already.

"Mary can't even bring herself to kill a mouse, I doubt she could kill a person….and you just changed the subject." John's arms fell down to his sides. He was annoyed that his friend could so easily manipulate a conversation. It was a gift he had never acquired.

"No I didn't, we were already finished with the other one. We are on a new one now." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It is not like I didn't tell her what she didn't already know. And it wouldn't hurt you to remind her every once in a while." The urge to punch his friend pressed against his chest again. Molly was a good woman, and though he doubted Sherlock would ever love her, he knew he cared a great deal for her.

"Sentiment…"

"I know, I know, but she has done so much for you. She put her job on the line for you…" John watched amazed as Sherlock pushed off the doorframe with a touch of violence, his eyes and lips going hard.

"You think I don't know that? Moriarty may not have targeted her, but she was in just as much danger for helping me. I know what she has done, we have both talked about it, and I assure you that it is none of your business."

John blinked as Sherlock whirled around and headed back into the lab. No matter how many years he knew the man, he would never understand him.

* * *

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw the damn folder across the lab. Lestrade had dropped off the files around an hour ago, and he had been combing through them ever since. John had gone home several hours before, after a rather heated phone call from his wife, and Sherlock couldn't help be annoyed with that. He needed his skull, John or just someone or something to talk to…or rather talk at.

When Lestrade begged him to take the case he had thought it a five, that he would have it solved before the night was through. Every murderer made a mistake, some little tell and he had figured to find one after four murders, only there wasn't one. The case suddenly looked more to be a seven or an eight.

Sherlock didn't lift his head when the doors to the lab opened, but he did look out the corner of his eye. He wasn't really surprised to see Molly, or the cup of coffee she held in her hand. Ever since he had returned he had formed a…a friendship of sorts with her. He didn't really treat her that much different than he had before, not in any way that most people would be able to tell at least. Then again he didn't treat John much different either, it was just who he was and his friends all understood that.

"The tox report shows nothing different, levels are within the same range as the other victims." Molly set down the coffee and the file containing the report for Sherlock. She looked around the room almost expecting to see John and smiled when she didn't find him. Sherlock had the habit of ringing him in the middle of the night when he was working on a case, and Molly knew Mary was about ready to murder Sherlock herself. Mostly after he interrupted them in bed one too many times.

"Not surprising. Our murderer isn't looking to hurt the children, she uses the drug to relax them, put them to sleep." Sherlock picked up the coffee, taking a large sip of it, grateful for the legal stimulant.

"Have the stomach samples yielded anything new?" Molly leaned against the table, smiling as she watched Sherlock practically down his coffee. She wished she could get him to eat something, she was always afraid he would one day just pass out from the hunger he chose to ignore.

"Not much, it seems our murderer fed the child though. Not long before the death actually." The cup was placed back on the table, empty. He would have to tell Molly to start bringing him bigger cups when he was there that late.

"What would that mean?"

"It just confirms what I said, our murderer is, or was, a mother. She is caring for the children, feeding them, cradling them as she kills them. This isn't about hate; it is about love, motherly love." Everyone always thought of a mother's love as being warm, kind, but it could drive a woman to kill. Sherlock had seen it before.

"How can murder be about love?" Molly didn't like to think that anyone could hurt a child, let along a mother.

"Molly…murder is a very passionate act; love and hate are both very passionate emotions. They both invoke violent reactions. What most people miss is how very similar they are." Sherlock leaned down until he was close enough to Molly he could smell the faint hint of the shampoo she had used that morning. Realizing how close he was he pulled back, but he could not rid that scent from his nose.

"Earlier you said these murders could mirror the death of her child." Molly felt her heart beat faster, her stomach churning at the look she had just seen in Sherlock's eyes. It was both hot and cold at the same time.

"It is very possible. She could have accidentally caused the death of her child, or maybe she watched it happen by the hands of another. She could be reliving the event but…"

"But?"

"Murderers like ours don't just pick random victims. We could argue that she picked these four simply for the reason that they are children, but then the ages very greatly. There is nothing to connect them. We know it is not about the sex of the child, not with the appearance of Bobby. None of the children have similar features or are even of the same race.

"We could look to the families of course, but even there we have too much difference to make a connection. The first two children came from rather poor families, but the last two came from reasonably well off families." Sherlock picked up one of the files and gave into the urge to toss it across the table, though not with enough force to scatter it everywhere.

"Alright…."

"If she was just reliving the murder of her child she would pick her victims accordingly. The children would all have something in common, most likely sex, hair colour, age." Sherlock practically glared at the file he had tossed, he hated when there was nothing for him to work with.

"So you don't have a lead yet?" Molly's eyes moved to where Sherlock had tossed the folder, she had seen him upset before, but he had never thrown anything. At least not in her presence.

"Our murderer is meticulous; the bodies were clean, only the trace of milk and drug where she forced them to drink it left behind. There is no connection to where they were found, or from where they were taken. There is nothing. Just bodies wrapped in blankets, massed produced blankets one can pick up anywhere.

"It seems I'll need to wait for the next one before any real evidence can be collected." He couldn't trust anyone else to correctly gather information.

"Th-the next one?! Sherlock!" Molly stood up straight, her eyes practically bulging out of her head. How could he speak so casually about the future murder of a child?

"Don't Molly, really just don't. There is nothing here to go by, nothing to indicate the identity of the murderer." He waved his hand over the files before him, as though inviting her to find what he could not.

"I know, but surely…"

"I'm not allowing a murder to happen; nothing that I do at this point will stop it. How can I catch a murderer with nothing to go by?" He felt like grabbing Molly's shoulders and shaking her, but he kept his hands at his side.

"I know, I know, but they are just children Sherlock." She hated the way he could sound so cold, and yet he was right. Another child was going to die and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

"Deaths for all ages and occasions." A rather bitter smirk crossed over Sherlock's face.

"Children, Sherlock, little innocent children!" Molly was on her toes then, her face shoved as far in his as she could being so much shorter than him.

"And they die just like anyone else." Sherlock looked down at the woman in front of him. Her face was turned up towards him, her nose as far up in the air as she could get it.

Molly stood there, her with her mouth falling agape, the urge to blacken his eye so strong she had to clench her hands together behind her back just to keep from swinging at him.

"I can't believe you just said that! I know you dislike people, but to say something so horrid about children." She could feel a tear form at the corner of her eye, and cursed it as it slipped down her cheek.

"What I said wasn't horrid, it was the truth. You know as well as I that children die, you have had many on your table before now. You have always been able to remove yourself from the situation, this is no different. Leave the caring to the families and the public; right now we all need you to do your job." He placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to take a few steps back.

Molly knew that he was right, not that it made her feel any better, or want to hit him less. Knowing that she might not be able to stop herself, she turned on her heel and left without a word.

Sherlock watched Molly leave and tried to ignore the rolling sickness in his stomach. He had been much harsher on her before, and far more malicious. He had even caused her to run off in tears many times. This time he hadn't wanted to hurt her, he hadn't been aiming for injury. He had only wanted to help her. He could see her professionalism slipping, she was beginning to care for the children on her table, and he knew that way only led to heartbreak. Still he found it didn't settle well with him the reaction he got, the fact that his words had upset her.

He sighed and went to take a drink of his coffee, scrunching up his nose when he remembered he had finished it already. He set it down before looking back at the files. There was nothing more he could do at the lab, he might as well go back to 221B; at least he didn't have to deal with offending his skull.

* * *

Author's Note: Right, one of the hardest chapters to write. Sherlock is so smart you always want him to just solve the case right away, and doing that would mean no actual story. So hopefully this worked out well, and that you enjoyed the Molly/Sherlock interaction. There will be much more from now on.

Next Chapter: Sherlock goes undercover, Molly wears a ring, and house hunting.

**Disclaimer:**** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	4. And Often Through My Curtains Peep

Chapter Three: And Often Through My Curtains Peep

* * *

Two days later found Sherlock sitting cross-legged on his table, his eyes glued to the wall before him. He had, as he was wont to do, covered said wall in newspaper clippings, case photos, as well as a new, crisp map of London. Everything that he had collected on the case now littered the flat wall, like a morbid collage to murder.

With his hands set in a steeple under his chin he looked over four of the photos, the names quickly scrawled across the bottom of each in thin black ink.

Andrea Miller,

Linda Caracciolo,

Mary Tarlov,

And Bobby Page,

He knew there would be a fifth photo, a fifth name, and he doubted it would be long before he tacked it up amongst the others. Only days separated each murder, the longest being a week.

His eyes passed over each item on the wall as he thought back on the past two days. He knew he would have to dig deeper, far deeper than NSY did. There had to be something to connect the children, and he figured the best place to start looking was with the families.

The Millers and the Caracciolos were easy enough. They were far from well off, both fathers were out of a job and they had to scrape by to eat. The Millers were the worst, but Sherlock knew it had more to do with the mother's drug addiction than lack of funds. On the other hand the Caracciolos were clean, their biggest problem being their father's disability making him unable to work, other than that they were a very happy family.

The Tarlovs had been a bit harder to meet with, unlike the other two, the Tarlovs had money. Oh they were not rich by any means, but they thought themselves so. They had slammed the door in his face when he had knocked, and in the end he had to resort to following them around so he could just happen upon them while they were out.

The father had been an alcoholic, and from what Sherlock could see, both parents seemed indifferent to their remaining children. They appeared to be more decoration than anything.

He had yet to visit the Pages, mainly because he didn't relish having a door slammed into his face again. He needed a new tactic, and that is what led him to the text he had sent off that morning.

* * *

Molly opened the door to her locker and gathered her change of clothes. She really didn't pay attention to what she was doing as she changed. Her mind was on the text she had received that morning. She had just stepped out of the shower when her mobile beeped. It didn't surprise her that it was Sherlock, he actually texted her a lot. Though most of the time it was to demand body parts or equipment, not to tell her to meet up with him at 221 and to make sure she was well dressed.

She had thought to text back with what he could do with his "request," as she was still angry at him, but in the end she decided to just ignore him. He would get the clue when she didn't show up. Only it seemed as though she had no choice in the matter.

When she had arrived at Bart's it was to find out her shift had been cut short, she was to have the afternoon off. If that wasn't enough, when she opened her locker she found a full set of new clothes, everything all the way down to her pants and bra. It shouldn't have surprised her that Sherlock knew her size, and yet it did. It also made her blush all the way down to her toes.

She had a feeling if she didn't show up Sherlock would just come and get her, it seemed better to just go along with whatever he had planned. No sense in causing a scene in the middle of her workplace….again.

Molly looked at herself in the mirror once she had finished dressing. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, though she knew it would be fine, Sherlock definitely knew how to dress. What she now wore reflected that completely; a fine skirt in baby powder blue with a matching blouse and cream cardigan, along with a pair of cream flats. She quickly brushed out her hair, leaving it down, and spread a bit of nude lip gloss on. She looked nice she realized, it was elegant and yet it fit her personality.

It didn't take her long to arrive at 221 after that. She paid the cab and rang the doorbell once she stepped up to the door. She couldn't help but fidget as she waited for Mrs Hudson to answer. Her hands seemed to be everywhere, brushing down her skirt, pulling on the bottom hem of her cardigan, smoothing down her now wind blown hair. She was sure she looked silly, but she didn't want or need Sherlock getting after her for not presenting herself right.

After a moment the door to 221B opened to a brightly smiling Mrs Hudson. There was just something about the older landlady that made even the coldest of people warm. Even Sherlock seemed to soften around the edges when around her, even if it was only slightly.

"Molly, come in, come in. You look really lovely today, Dear." The smile grew just a bit larger. Ever since his return Sherlock had been spending more time with Molly, and it gave Mrs Hudson hope. He was a dear boy, and she would not be around forever to care for him. She had hoped when she had met John he had found a partner, but no matter how many comments she made about how perfect they were it just wasn't to be.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson. Is Sherlock in?" Molly forced herself to still her hands and look less like a nervous little girl.

"Right up the stairs, as always. The two of you got plans?" Mrs Hudson looked the younger woman over as she closed the door behind her. She had seen her in much fancier things, but those had been special occasions. Molly never had a sense for fashion, coming round in loose trousers and some of the oddest patterned jumpers, but she figured the young woman dressed more for comfort than to impress. Now the woman stood before her in clothing that obviously cost more than her whole wardrobe combined, and it increased her hope that her boy had found someone.

"I'm not sure what is going on to tell you the truth. You know Sherlock; he texted me this morning and told me to meet him here." Molly shrugged her shoulders, trying to contain the urge to fidget again.

"Well, I hope you have fun whatever you do in any case." A bit of her hope was dashed, but then again as far as she knew Sherlock had never had a girlfriend or boyfriend, she doubted the boy knew how to react around a romantic interest.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, I'll talk to you later." Molly gave a quick hug to the older woman before walking up the stairs. The door was open and she could see Sherlock sitting on the low table, his chin resting on the tips of his fingers. It wasn't really an odd position to find him in, from what she had heard from John this was down right normal compared to what he had seen.

He said nothing as she walked in; though she was sure he knew she had arrived. She waited beside him, her eyes looking over the wall of evidence, trying to imagine what Sherlock was seeing.

"There is a box on the kitchen table. Put on what is inside." Only Sherlock's mouth moved as he spoke, his eyes still going over everything before him.

Molly smiled at him even though he wasn't watching and went to the kitchen without word. She had been expecting a garment or hat box, but was surprised when all she found was a small leather box, the kind one got from a jeweler. She opened it carefully, inside finding two small gold earrings with a matching necklace, and to her shock, a gold wedding band.

"Sherlock?" Molly walked back to stand beside the detective, only then noticing the casual way he was dressed. He still wore his suit trousers and shirt, but the tails were un-tucked and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. It might not have been much of a change, but it made him seem more laid back. With wide eyes she also noticed a matching gold band on his ring finger.

"Hurry up Molly, we don't want to be late." Sherlock flicked a hand out in a short wave, obviously expecting Molly to follow orders.

"Late? Late for what?" Molly was beginning to realize just what John had been talking about all these years. For a man as brilliant as he was he could be so unobservant when it came to his friends. It was kind of funny actually, considering.

"To meet the estate agent." Sherlock dropped his hands from his chin and looked over at Molly. He had been right in choosing what he had. The light blue looked perfect with her pale skin and set off her eyes and hair. Of course anything would have been better than the garish orange and fruit patterned clothing he had seen her in.

"We have talked about this Sherlock, in fact I know John has as well, you are going to have to give a bit more information." Molly set her hands on her hips. She refused to go anywhere until he told her what was going through his mind. She wasn't like John, she didn't like adventure, and she really didn't want to get caught up in one. Mostly since several of his and John's seemed to end with gunshots.

"I need to talk to the Pages." Sherlock raised his brows half way up his forehead.

"More Sherlock." Molly mimicked Sherlock, her brows raising slightly.

"We are a newly married couple looking for our first house. A house that is conveniently near the Page's." Sherlock turned around on the table until he fully faced Molly, his eyes going down to the small gold ring in her hand and back to her face.

"Alright…" Molly lifted a hand and twirled it in front of her as though to tell him to continue. He of course just huffed at it with a roll of his eyes.

"Seriously Molly, use that brain I know you possess. All the neighbors will be watching us; it is the natural curiosity of humans." People, all people no matter what their position in life, were nosey and rude. It could be a bother, but Sherlock had found it to be a very useful tool.

"You plan on luring the Pages out?" It made a kind of sense actually. She remembered when she was much younger a new family had moved in the house next door, her mother could hardly wait until she could walk over to greet them. Before that she had spent the morning watching them move in from the window, commenting on what sort of people they were by what she watched them take into the house.

"Hopefully. It's a long shot, but at this point it is what we've got. Mary Tarlov's family hadn't been corporative at all and I would enjoy not having to deal with that again." They also didn't have time for it, Molly might have thought him cold, but contrary to her belief he didn't want another child to die.

"What have you found out from the other families?" She dropped her hands to her sides. It seemed that no matter what she wanted she was being dragged into it. She just hoped there would be no gunshots or chases.

"Not much, drug addict mother, disabled father, drunk father. Besides that the families are vastly different. Now hurry up, I'll go catch a cab." Sherlock unfolded his legs from beneath him and stood from the table, his muscles protesting at being in that position for so long.

Molly watched Sherlock leave, forgoing his coat and scarf for the first time. They were pretty recognizable after all. Once she heard the door shut downstairs she dared to look at the box in her hand. She put the earrings on, simple gold braids twisted into circles, and its matching necklace, though she hesitated a moment when she went to put the ring on.

She had to admit to having several fantasies where she was wearing Sherlock's ring, and in none of them did it include her playing his wife undercover. Still she slipped the band on, fighting the disappointment that rose in her that he wasn't the one to do it, and gathered her handbag before following him down.

* * *

By the time they arrived Molly was completely caught up on their "history." They had met a few years ago at the hospital; which was true. They had hit it off the moment they met; well if one counted Sherlock giving her the once over and declaring her sufficient while she stood there trying to rein in her libido, then she guessed that was true enough. Though she had been trying to get his attention since they first met, it had taken him many years before he finally actually saw her; Molly almost groaned at that half-truth. Their courtship was quick ending in a marriage only four months past. They had been living with her parents since they returned from their honeymoon; it had been a romantic month in Venice; and they had decided it was finally time to find a place of their own, mostly now that Molly was pregnant.

When Molly tried to step out of the cab, Sherlock grasped her wrist, holding her back while he paid. She sat back when he gave her a look and waited while he got out and walked around to open the door for her. She gave him a smile, a smile that faltered when he slipped her arm through his.

"Relax Molly, and remember that we are supposed to be in love. Everyone will think I disgust you if you cringe every time I touch you." Sherlock smiled and gave a couple of short pats to the hand on his arm. He knew she would be able to keep of the ruse; she had convincingly led everyone to believe she thought him dead the past two years.

"Sorry." Molly took a single deep breath to steady herself.

They met the estate agent at the door, exchanging bland and generic introductions before following him inside. Molly tried not to roll her eyes as the man tried to sell the house just a bit too enthusiastically. It was actually a beautiful place, just like she used to imagine her and Sherlock sharing.

The kitchen, which was much larger than her own, would have been filled with his experiments even though he had taken the extra downstairs room as a lab. The large room upstairs with the floor to ceiling windows would have held their bed, where she would coax him to stay for a late morning on Sundays. The room at the end of the hall would have been their daughter or son's and would have been filled with toy microscopes and play lab. She could picture it all clearly, and it made her want to run out of the house screaming. She had been doing so well not allowing it to bother her that Sherlock did not see her that way, and probably never would.

"I know he is a bit of a fool, but it is nothing to cry over Molly." Sherlock leaned down to whisper in Molly's ear when he noticed a single tear run down her cheek. He had no idea what her problem was, but she needed to gather herself. The tour was almost over, and from what he had just observed from the window it wouldn't be long before they met the Pages.

Molly lifted a hand to her face, her eyes going wider the moment she felt the warm wetness on her fingers. She gave a soft laugh when the estate agent looked over at them, his eyes settling on Molly.

"Sorry, pregnancy hormones, I seem to cry at the littlest thing anymore." Molly shrugged her shoulders before leaning into Sherlock a little more.

"That is alright, Ma'am. I do understand." The agent gave a little laugh of his own and started right in on recounting when his wife had been pregnant and how he had seriously worried for her sanity at one point, laughing one minute only to cry the next. He continued on as Sherlock and Molly followed behind him, both ignoring the rather boring man.

"Impressive." Sherlock whispered close to Molly's ear, his nose filling once more with the sent of her shampoo.

"Not really, every woman learns to lie convincingly about her feelings. We're just lucky…or possibly unlucky…that he turns out to be a father." She rolled her eyes at the agent as he rambled on about his little girl's latest antics.

They were both silent for a moment as the agent led them into the very last room. With her arm still held in his, Molly looked around with a small smile; it really would have made the perfect nursery. A bit of brighter paint and a nice carpet she could just see herself sitting in an old rocker by the window, a little bundle in her arms.

"I'll just give you two a few moments to yourselves to talk." The agent smiled widely at the couple. The man was a bit stoic, a bit too stiff for his liking, but his personality seemed to be softened by his lovely wife.

Sherlock nodded sharply, slipping from Molly as soon as the agent had left. He walked over to the window moving aside the drapes slightly, a smug grin taking over his features as he noticed someone peering out of the window next door.

Molly looked out of the room to make sure the agent was well out of earshot before turning to Sherlock. For just a moment she found that she couldn't move the image from moments before still fresh in her mind. It was so clear, her rocking their little daughter to sleep while Sherlock stood by the window his voice soft as he told his version of a bedtime story. Oh but God she wanted that. After a moment she shook her head to rid herself of the image, now was really not the time to get lost in daydreams.

"I'm surprised he didn't recognize you, what with your picture being in the paper so often." That was one thing that surprised her. Sherlock's face had been in every paper, passed around on every site online. She figured there was not a place on the planet where he wouldn't be recognized.

"People tend to see only what they wish to see. Also, loath as I am to admit it, that ear hat has come in rather handy. The public expects me to wear the bloody thing, so when I don't most convince themselves that I couldn't possibly be Sherlock Holmes." He grumbled a bit. Sure it was handy, he could still go undercover without being recognized, but whenever he met with a new client they all wanted to know where that stupid hat was.

"I really don't understand your aversion to the hat. I think you look quite cute in it." Molly bit her lip at the look Sherlock sent her way.

"I am not 'cute' Molly, and I would thank you to never mention you think so around John. He seems to think such things are amusing." Bunnies were cute, puppies were cute, little girls in pink dresses were cute; at least everyone seemed to think so. But he was not cute.

"You are rather…" She bit her lip harder at the bland expression he sent her. She was trying so hard not to laugh.

"Molly…" Sherlock pressed his lips together and sent Molly a bit of a glare.

"Sorry. So, what is the plan anyway? Why couldn't you have just knocked on their door?" It seemed the most obvious thing to do. Knock on their door and flash one of the stolen badges she had heard he kept. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

"The last time I tried I ended up with a door slammed in my face. If the Pages are anything like the Tarlovs it would be much easier if they would just come to us." Sherlock also knew that people revealed a lot more that way than they would if confronted directly.

"You almost make it sound like they are suspects….Sherlock, surely you don't believe they could be in on their son's death?" It was bad enough that there was someone out there killing children. She didn't want to think the children's own parents could have anything to do with it.

"They could be, but no Molly, I do not believe they are. There has to be a connection though, somehow there has to be." He just needed one thing that would connect all the victims. Just one thing to show why their murderer chose those particular children out of all others.

"Well, I hope you two have had time to talk. Sorry that I can not give you longer, but I do have another showing soon." The agent opened the door, walking in with what Molly figured was his apologetic smile. It was actually a little bit unnerving, a little too wide.

"Not to worry, but I do hope you won't mind, but we would like to have a look around the outside before we decide." Sherlock took Molly's arm again, giving her hand a gentle squeeze in his own.

"Oh, of course. Do you need me to stay, give you two a lift back?"

"Thank you but no, I'll just order a taxi when we're ready." Sherlock lifted his mobile from his pocket for a moment before putting it away.

"Alright then, I'll just lock up. Do you know whether or not you will be taking the house?"

"We are not sure yet, but we'll contact you in a couple of days." Following the agent back outside, Sherlock held on just a bit tighter to Molly, his smile going a bit wider.

"Right, of course. I'll just be going now. Contact me if you have any more questions." The agent nodded his head as he headed towards his car. He had believed that he was going to make a sale that day; the wife sure seemed to love the place. Her eyes had lit up further and further with each room. Sadly he wasn't as sure about the husband.

Once the agent finally left Molly thought to pull away from Sherlock, but he just wrapped his arm around her shoulders and leaned her in closer to his chest.

"And the show begins. The Pages are making their way over now."

Molly looked to where Sherlock had indicated and sure enough a well-dressed couple was headed straight for them. Molly wrapped her arm around his waist, and rested her head against his chest. He pulled her a little closer still, his hand running up and down her arm.

The two of them walked around in each other's arms, Sherlock whispering down at her every now and then about the house until they were interrupted by the couple he had identified as the Pages.

"The place is a bit old, but Mrs Olson that used to live there took good care of it. I suspect it's in better condition now than when it was first built."

Molly and Sherlock turned to find a rather large man standing beside them. Mr Page was not what Molly would have imagined from what his son looked like. He was large, but not fat, just broad and very tall. His hair was a soft brown and baby fine, just dusting the tips of his big ears. He wasn't what one would call a handsome man; he was rough looking with his too deeply set brown eyes and wide pug nose. His mouth, which looked too small for a man his size, was stretched in an impossibly wide smile, and Molly could easily tell he was faking it.

Compared to her husband, Mrs Page was small. She stood only to his shoulders, though Molly figured she might have been taller if she didn't slouch as much as she did. She was young, but how young was hard to tell, what with the amount of makeup on her face. Mrs Page was in such contrast to her husband that Molly was in a bit of shock. Where Mr Page inspired unease, Mrs Page made you want to reach out and embrace her, she looked so fragile.

"It is a beautiful place. John Hooper and this is my wife Molly, and you are?" Sherlock reached out a hand to Mr Page, and Molly watched as the man hesitated before grasping it.

"Charles Page, and my wife Patricia." Charles grasped a hold of his wife's shoulders, pressing her firmly into his side. Patricia just nodded her head, but gave a smile when her husband made a small grunting sound.

"So, you're interested in purchasing the old place?" Mr Page's voice was thick and gruff, like a man that had smoked much of his life.

"Molly and I have not decided yet. The place is perfect, but we're not sure we want to move so far from her parents, not with Molly expecting and all." Sherlock watched as Charles stiffened momentarily, his arm clasping his wife's shoulder more harshly. Patricia didn't say anything, but he could see as she winced at the gesture and quickly quashed the tears that had started to form.

"Understandable, a woman should be near her mother when she is pregnant, it is only natural." Before either of them could comment a cab pulled up. Molly felt Sherlock push her slightly with the arm around her shoulder, indicating it was time to leave.

"That would be ours, we best be going, don't want to wear Molly out. It was lovely meeting you." Sherlock didn't allow them to reply and just ushered Molly along, down to the cab.

"When did you ring the cab?" Molly had to cling tightly to Sherlock as he practically rushed her along. She wasn't used to the flats she was wearing, and she had already slipped several times that day.

"I didn't, I arranged for the cabbie to park around the corner until I sent him a text, which I sent off just a moment ago. Now come along Molly, we've got everything we need." The smile that Sherlock sent her way was about as excited as she had ever seen, and yet she could tell he was still disappointed.

Molly wasn't sure they got anything at all, but didn't say anything to Sherlock. She wasn't the detective after all.

* * *

Once back at 221B Molly followed Sherlock as he practically flew into the flat. She sat down in what she would always think of as John's chair, her legs curling up under her as she leaned back and watched Sherlock pace back and forth.

For a while this was all he did, back and forth, back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Finally he stopped and flung himself down in his chair facing Molly, the smile on his face long gone.

"Sherlock?" She had seen him act that way before, but it was normally in the lab at Bart's.

"Abusive husband." Sherlock looked directly at Molly, though he didn't really see her as he ran through what he had learned that day.

"What?" If this is what being friends with Sherlock was going to entail she was really going to have to get used to the seemingly randomness that was Sherlock's method of thinking. That or simply go crazy.

"Mr Page, he's abusing his wife." His eyes focused fully on Molly, watching as she pressed a hand to her stomach and pushed in. An obvious indication that she was distressed. She had done the same thing just after he told her just what he needed her help for two years ago.

"H-how do you…" Molly felt her stomach turn.

"It is easy enough to see. He blames her for the end of his first marriage." He waved a hand to the side. It had been easy enough to see when one actually looked.

"First marriage?" Molly looked at him wide eyed. After all those years of watching him work he still could amaze her.

"He was wearing a wedding band around his neck. A man's wedding band, had his first wife died it would have been a woman's ring. No, he is wearing his ring from his previous marriage; the fact that he wears it is a clear indication that he still loves his ex-wife.

"The new Mrs Page was most likely Bobby's nanny, judging by her age. Most likely twenty-two/twenty-three. A pretty young thing like her around all the time, a man like Mr Page could hardly resist even if he did love his wife." Obvious and a little cliché, but Sherlock found that most people hardly ever did anything original.

"You said he was abusing her?" Molly removed her hand from her stomach and righted herself in the chair.

"It was her makeup and clothing. No one her age wears that much makeup. Her clothes covered everything but her hands and face. She was also standing hunched over, most likely an injury to her abdomen and ribs. She jolted every time her husband moved his arms anywhere near her, as though bracing herself for a hit."

Molly thought she would be sick. She had known women that had been abused, had seen many of their bodies come through her morgue. It worried her that she would one day walk into work and find Mrs Page on her table.

"Molly…don't you find it odd that just days after the death of his son, Mr Page could act so cheery?" He steepled his hands and placed them under his chin, his eyes still fixed on the woman before him.

"I thought you said that you didn't believe they had anything to do with his death?" Molly forced herself not to press her hand to her stomach again.

"And I still believe that. Mrs Page certainly is distressed, but her husband made sure she didn't show it. No, I don't think they had anything to do with it, at least not directly." Sherlock stood up again and walked to the wall where he had tacked all the pictures and clippings.

"Molly, when you examined the bodies, did you find any evidence indicating any kind of abuse?" Sherlock's eyes went over each and every picture, trying to find that connection.

"No, there were no bruises or scars, nothing. What are you thinking?" Molly stood from her chair, joining Sherlock at the wall, looking over all the pictures, all the little pieces of this new puzzle.

"There has to be something connecting these four children. If we rule out Linda Caracciolo, we could possibly say it had to do with the parents. Two of them are addicts and the third beats on his wife. If the children were all abused then it would make sense…" His voice trailed off, fingers pressing into his lips.

"Why?"

"This woman, she does not mean harm to the children…" Sherlock could see Molly stiffen beside him and realized too late what reaction he would receive from his statement.

"Doesn't mean harm?! She is murdering them, how is that not harm?!" Molly pressed her hands on her hips once again, her face pulled in an expression of total shock and disbelief. Sherlock looked down at her and just shook his head.

"Look at what she does, how she does it. No, she doesn't mean them harm. But it still doesn't make sense; the Caracciolos are a respectable family. There is no evidence of addictions, abuse, nothing, they are clean." Sherlock felt like throwing something, but settled for retrieving his violin instead.

"You don't have to sound so devastated by that." Molly's hands fell to her side, she was just so tired and confused after the day she had.

"Molly, there has to be a connection." He pointed his bow to her and then the wall before flopping himself down into his chair.

"I know, I wasn't…I'm just tired Sherlock. I've had a long day. I'm not used to all this detective stuff, not like you and John." She really wasn't cut out for it. Her detective work took place in her morgue, not out in the public with live people.

"Oh, right." Sherlock blinked a couple of times, his mind stilling enough for him to recognize the slump in her shoulders.

"Look, I'm going to head home. You just put that huge brain of yours to use and I will see you later, alright?" She wanted to go over to him, place a soft kiss to his brow, but she knew he not only wouldn't appreciate it, he wouldn't understand it. Instead she just gathered her bag and headed for the door.

"Of course, goodnight Molly." Sherlock set his violin on his lap, watching as Molly hesitated at moment, taking a step towards him before redirecting her steps for her bag and then the door.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

* * *

Later that night, as she prepared herself for bed, she remembered the gold band that remained on her finger. Funny that she hadn't felt the weight.

She slipped it off her finger, setting it inside the little jewelry box she kept beside her bed. It might not have been real, but at least for one afternoon she had been Sherlock's wife.

* * *

Author's Note: This was actually one of the easier chapters for me to write. I know, it is a little cliché, Molly going undercover as Sherlock's wife, but I needed to get the ball rolling somehow and this just seemed to fit. And hey we got a full chapter of Sherlolly interaction!

Next Chapter: Sherlock annoys John and Mary in the middle of the night, Sherlock deduces at the crime scene, Sherlock is confronted with a murder that actually unnerves him, Lestrade and John don't know how to deal with Sherlock.

**Disclaimer:**** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	5. He Could Not See Which Way To Go

Chapter Four: He Could Not See Which Way To Go

* * *

…"I want my mummy!"…

…

…"Shh now, everything will be alright, shh."…

…

…"Where's Mummy?"…

…

…"She's not here, you are safe here."…

…

…"I'm scared."…

…

…"There's no reason to be scared, I'm going to make everything better."…

…

* * *

John blinked as he looked up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He wasn't sure what had awoken him, but he had a bad feeling he knew who was the cause at least. A couple of clicking knocks came from the front door and John groaned. Oh yes, he knew who was the cause.

He looked over to the clock beside his bed and cursed Sherlock, it was only four in the bloody morning! With a groan John started to slide his way out of bed, only to have the warm arm around his chest tighten to the point that he could no longer move.

"Even think about answering that and you'll be taking care of yourself for the next week." Mary groaned into the curve of her husband's shoulder. Sometimes she wondered if she could get away with killing Sherlock, surely it was possible. Maybe one day she would just go Mrs Lovett and start serving meat pies to her friends.

"Mary, if I don't he will just let himself in. Do you really want him in our room…again?" John really wished he was kidding, but Sherlock had yet to learn boundaries. By this point he doubted he ever would.

"I took away his key last month." She had known giving the man a key was a bad idea. It wasn't that she actually hated Sherlock, he was a good man and she knew he made her husband happy. And she would do anything to keep John from descending into depression again. Well anything but make it possible for Sherlock to interrupt them in bed.

"He can pick locks, you realize that don't you?" John tried to remove his wife's arm from his chest so he could at least get dressed before Sherlock broke in, because he had no doubt he would.

"I hate your friends." Mary groaned again, but in the end she loosened her arm enough for John to extract himself from her hold.

"No you don't, just me, even then it is more of a strong dislike than actual hate." Sherlock walked into the room, his coat wrapped tightly around him. He rolled his eyes as Mary squeaked and pulled the sheet up to cover her nude chest. The whole scene would have been avoided if they had just answered the door when he knocked, any unpleasantness was their fault.

"Get out!" Keeping the sheet as tightly against her body as she could, she removed an arm and pointed towards the door. At least her and John hadn't been engaged this time, as they had been several other times. She always felt as though Sherlock was judging their technique, what with they way he looked at them after those encounters. The last thing she needed was sex advice from Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh don't work yourself up, I'm just here for John." He sent a look towards Mary, it wasn't as though he found her agreeable in such a way. She was a bit too rounded, too blonde. Ignoring the woman he took another step into the room, his focus on John.

"Sherlock, couldn't you have waited for morning?" John turned until his back faced his wife and friend, his feet setting on the floor beside his bed. He blinked several times trying to wake up enough to deal with whatever insanity Sherlock had brought with him.

"There has been another murder, Mycroft has secured the crime scene for us, but we must leave now." Sherlock watched as John's shoulders slumped as though someone had just set a heavy weight on them.

"Shite, another child?" Turning around to face his friend he waited for Sherlock to grin like he always did before observing a crime scene, only he just nodded and headed back out of the room instead.

"John?" Mary ignored the slight shudder in her voice and just laid a hand on John's slumped shoulders. He had told her about the current case Sherlock was working on, though reluctantly. She knew he only told her because she wouldn't leave him alone when he had come home last week looking like he had seen a ghost.

"I'm sorry Mary, I best go. This makes five children now." He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly at the ends. He was fully awake now, the news of another death had done the trick.

"They are actually children, small children? Who would do something like that?" John hadn't given her any details, just told her that a child had been murdered, he never told her the age. She couldn't bear to think about it.

"That is what we are trying to find out. Look, I'll see you later. I wouldn't go but…" John stood and turned around as he buttoned his trousers.

"No, no this time I understand. Go, I'm not sure what I would do if it was our child." Mary felt her heart sink as John stilled his fingers as they worked up his shirt.

"Mary?" John looked hopeful, his heart speeding up.

"Not yet." She hated the way her husband's face fell before lighting back up with a false smile.

"It'll happen, we haven't been trying for very long." John smiled at his wife, he knew it took time but he couldn't help but disappointed.

"I know, now go before he comes back in here."

John quickly finished dressing before leaning down to kiss his wife and hurrying out to find Sherlock leaning against the front door.

"You could have at least sent a text before coming over."

"That is not important right now. Mycroft has been able to secure the crime scene for the next couple of hours." Sherlock quickly turned and left, leaving the door wide open. John just stood there a moment wondering what his life would have been like if he had never met the man. After a moment he just laughed, he was sure it would have been a very boring life.

* * *

The door to the old house creaked as it opened, the noise echoing through the empty hall. John suppressed a shiver, the place had an eerie feel to it, cold and sinister. They walked into the house and down the hall, the light from Sherlock's torch illuminating the dingy walls covered with peeling paper.

Stopping at a door Sherlock opened it carefully before entering. John followed inside, his eyes landing on the old broken bed in the corner. It seemed to be the only thing in the room that had been disturbed. Within a few seconds Sherlock started looking over the room, his gloved hands lifting dust covered books and curtains.

John ended up just standing there with nothing to do as the body had already been taken away.

"So, what am I here for?" John lifted his arms to indicate the room around them. It wasn't as though he had never joined Sherlock at a crime scene without a body before, but there had always been more for him to do then.

"Second set of eyes." Sherlock turned to look at John briefly before returning to his work.

"Right." John clasped his hands behind his back, lifting himself up on the balls of his feet a few times.

"She holds the child the entire time." Sherlock mumbled as he looked down at the bed, his hand just hovering over the faded blanket.

"She carried the child in, the both of them sat on the bed. The wrinkle pattern indicates only one body, it is too big for a child." He turned away from the bed and looked down at the table, his glove covered fingers reaching down to dip into a sticky puddle. Drugged milk.

"God! This place is too clean!" He felt like tossing the table over, it was all too clean, too bare of evidence.

"Sherlock?"

"I can make out her movements, easy enough with the amount of dust. The child was most likely already swaddled when they came in here, she had everything set up." Sherlock knelt beside the bed, his head ducking underneath.

John stood at the doorway, his arms still behind his back as he watched. He really didn't mind joining Sherlock on a case, in fact it sort of excited him. But he would have enjoyed having something to actually do, besides playing at being his skull that is.

Echoing steps brought him back to the present, his hand quickly grasping the gun from the waist of his trousers.

"It's just Lestrade." Sherlock stood, a moment later being proven right as the DI walked into the room.

"You realize this is probably the worst thing you could have done seeing as we are trying not to get caught." It hadn't really surprised Greg when Mycroft Holmes had shown up at the crime scene earlier in the day. He guessed he had just been waiting for Sherlock's brother to press his advantage in this case. Still he wasn't sure it was the best idea, of course that could also just be the worry over his job speaking.

"Do stop complaining, your job is secure. He might be insufferable, but Mycroft is the best at what he does." Sherlock forced the words from his mouth, unused to giving his brother compliments.

"How did you convince him to do this anyway?" Greg knew the relationship between the brothers was complicated, he was never sure if they actually hated each other or just played at it.

"Guilt can be a great motivator. Big brother is still trying to make up for his most recent blunder." Sherlock sneered before turning away to look through the drawers in the bedside table.

John and Greg were silent a moment, feeling uncomfortable at Sherlock's remark. John knew the brothers loved each other, but there was so much resentment on both sides the two would never be friends. And John secretly thought they were just too much alike to actually get along, though he knew better than to mention such a thing to either of the brothers.

"So, what have you found?" Greg shook the uncomfortable feeling away, it never did any good to contemplate the Holmes Brothers. He doubted any psychiatrist would touch them, no matter how rich they were.

"These are not random murders. She plans them, she had everything ready before she brought the child here." Sherlock turned away from the bed, frustrated at not having found anything more.

"Was the child reported missing within the past few days?" He hoped that with this one he would be able to figure out the connection, figure out anything to move the case forward.

"No, the other four had been, but not this one. As of right now we don't know the identity of the child." Even though he had known another child would be found, this one had still surprised him when they got the call from the old caretaker, as there had been no missing persons report.

"Has the body already been examined?"

"Not yet, I've made it very clear that Molly is the only pathologist allowed to work on this case. The body is being held until her shift in the morning." Greg felt a little guilty about asking Molly to work on the case, he knew it was a hard thing to examine the children, but he trusted Molly more than anyone else.

"Good, when you come to the hospital bring the case file. Come on John." Sherlock slipped off his gloves and headed out of the house without another word. John pinched the bridge of his nose and followed after bidding Lestrade a quick goodbye.

Lestrade just stood there a moment, his eyes going back to where they had found the child. He felt a rolling sickness in his stomach. He hated all the murder cases he ever worked on, always sickened by the people that could do such a thing. But there was nothing that disgusted him more than the monsters that could ever lay a hand against a child.

Unnerved, Lestrade quickly left the room and the house, not surprised to find the detective and the doctor already gone by time he stepped outside.

* * *

Molly looked down at the clipboard in her hands, her eyes scanning over the names of those that were scheduled for post mortems that day. Her heart stopped at one particular post mortem, an unnamed child. She didn't need to read the notation that had been tacked onto the side to know what had happened. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment before setting her clipboard down and pulling on her lab coat.

She knew it was a bit unrealistic, but she had been hoping that Sherlock would have solved the case that night after meeting the Pages. Sherlock was good, but not good enough to solve a case without sufficient evidence.

She downed the last sip of her coffee before tossing the empty cup in the bin as she headed towards the morgue. Along the way several of her colleagues greeted her, but she just ignored them. Her eyes got a bit glassy, her chest hurting at what she would find. She really hated this part of the job, and she was really beginning to hate how she was losing control of herself.

Throughout the day Molly had been able to keep herself in check. She had looked in on the child first thing that morning, but in an uncharacteristic move, she slid the drawer back and proceeded to work through the rest of her list, leaving the child to the last possible moment.

When she could no longer put it off, Molly set about her preparations.

She was well into the autopsy when Sherlock entered the morgue. Molly was doing her best to continue to act like a professional, showing no emotion towards the child on the table. Still she knew that Sherlock could see the faint creasing of her brow, the almost imperceptible downturn of her mouth, and the quite obvious dewy wetness to her eyes that most of her colleagues just chalked up to an irritation due to her contacts.

She knew, not just because of who he was, but because of the almost un-Sherlock like softening of his face when he looked from her to the body before her. Of course just because he allowed, or was unaware of Molly thought, the small fraction of care to enter his expression did not mean he would be any less Sherlock than normal.

"What do we have?" Sherlock paused a few seconds after looking Molly over before fully entering the room. It bothered him that he could see her professionalism slipping, though he wasn't really sure why it bothered him so much. He wasn't disappointed or angry, it just made him uncomfortable.

"Male, most likely four or five years old. The tox report isn't back yet, but I don't really think it was necessary. There is no doubt the child was killed the same way. Same bruising pattern and residue along the mouth." Setting down her instruments Molly stood back a step, watching as Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and moved to stand beside her and look over the body.

Sherlock swallowed as he looked at the face of the little boy on the table, a strange lump in the back of his throat. He stood back after a moment and turned to the woman beside him.

"What do you see, what is different about this one?" The words seemed to be forced from his lips as he stood there, his eyes focused away from the child.

"He's malnourished. Also his right leg looks to have been broken at one point, it healed wrong, he most likely had a pretty bad limp." Actually he looked like he had many injuries that had never been properly treated, and weak lungs as though he had been sick awhile without medication. It upset Molly that someone would treat their child that way.

"He was homeless." Sherlock stepped away from the body, that strange lump still in his throat.

"What, a five year old child?" She knew it wasn't unheard of, but it still bothered her.

"And his mother." He felt his hands clenching at his side as the reality of what he had seen finally penetrated his mind.

"Sherlock?" Molly looked at him then, at the unusualness of his actions. He was still and refusing to look down at the table, she had seen him act that way only one other time, and that had been when he had identified Adler's body.

"His name is Thomas Lael, his mother is Jessica, she is one of my Homeless Network." Sherlock forced himself to look down at the young boy on the table. He remembered the child, he was always hiding behind his mother when he would contact her for help. He had been a happy little boy, always smiling widely at Sherlock when he would toss him a boiled sweet.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly dared to lay a hand on his arm, worried at the look she saw cross his face.

Sherlock shook himself and the image of a laughing little boy from his mind. He ripped his gloves off as well as Molly's hand and turned to leave.

"Tell Lestrade I have no need for the files."

"Sherlock?" Molly watched bewildered as the man made his way quickly out of the morgue. She had not seen him so unbalanced since before the "fall." It unnerved her.

* * *

Sherlock stuck his hands deeply into his pockets as he walked down the alleyway. He had known Jessica Lael for a few years, she had been one of the few that had known the truth of his death. She was a young woman, kicked out of her parents' house after she became pregnant at seventeen. She had always been a great asset, she was rather smart, if not in her men, and had always been reliable when he needed information.

He had always prided himself on not caring, it was something he had always believed to be a weakness. Moriarty shattered that little fantasy of his the moment he targeted three particular people. Since that moment on the roof Sherlock had fought with himself about his feelings towards certain people in his life, John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, as well as Molly. He had promised himself that those four would be the only ones he allowed to slip in, but now he found his stomach boiling at the image of little Tom.

He had been involved in many cases, he had seen many bodies, tortured and beaten before finally released from their pain. But never before had the body on that table belonged to someone he had actually known, someone he had talked to and made smile. It was a strange and unwelcome feeling.

Sherlock turned down the last corner, coming to a stop where Jessica and her son normally slept. He had been planning ways to tell the young woman about her son, instead he pulled his mobile from his pocket at the sight that greeted him.

"Lestrade, it seems our murderer has branched out."

* * *

Sherlock stood at his window, violin in hand though he did not play it. He remained where he was, ignoring the sound of the door opening behind him.

Lestrade stood just in the doorway, watching as the other man just stared blankly out the window.

"Who was she?" Greg still felt shaken at what he had found after Sherlock called him. He hadn't really been sure what to expect, but it sure as hell hadn't been what he encountered in that alleyway.

"Jessica Lael, the mother." Sherlock ran his thumb up and down his bow as he absentmindedly tapped it against the wall.

"The mother? Oh God, of the child we found yesterday?" There were times when Greg hated his job, this was turning out to be one of them.

"Thomas, and yes." Sherlock's eyes looked down at the street, though later he wouldn't be able to tell you what he had seen. The only thing running through his head was the image of Jessica, or what had remained of her.

"Why would our murderer target her?" He might not have been the genius that Sherlock was, but he knew his job. Murderers rarely ever changed so drastically, this murder didn't make sense.

"Jessica was little more than a child herself." Sherlock spoke to himself, his words whispered though he knew the man behind him could hear.

"The way she was killed does not add up though. Jessica was killed violently; the method does not match up. Maybe we are looking at a totally different killer." It was a long shot, but still not impossible.

"It is too much of a coincidence, Thomas is found murdered and the very next day his mother's body is found. No, this is the same woman. But you are right, it doesn't match up. All the others she has cared for, taken great care not to hurt them. Jessica's murder was one of anger, of hate. She wanted to hurt her." Sherlock set down his violin and sat himself down in his chair, his hands moving up in a steeple under his chin.

Greg knew that he wouldn't be getting anything more out of him, not with the far away look he saw in his eyes. He thought to give a pat on the other man's shoulder, but in the end he just turned and left. He hoped Sherlock would figure it all out soon, anymore murders and the public would start to panic.

* * *

John stopped outside of the cab the moment he saw Lestrade walking out of 221B. He had gotten a call from Molly earlier saying she had been worried for their friend. John just brushed it off at first, Sherlock always went a bit strange when he was on a case, still it wouldn't stop bothering him.

"There hasn't been another body found, has there?" The mere thought brought bile to John's throat.

"Yes, only this time it's not a child. Sherlock found the mother of the last child, her murder was a bit more…bloody." Greg tried to remove the image from his head. It had been a long time since he had seen a murder that bloody, one filled with that much hate.

"You sure it is even the same killer?" Not impossible, but most improbable.

"Sherlock seems to think it is. Sadly I'd have to agree, it really is too much of a coincidence." Greg looked up towards the windows of the flat and sighed.

"It's good that you're here. I guess he knew both mother and child, he is acting…strange. Like he did when we thought Adler was dead." He looked back towards the man in front of him. Out of all their friends he knew John knew how best to deal with an upset Sherlock.

"Yeah, Molly called me earlier." John really didn't like Molly's fears being echoed by the DI, he had hoped that when he saw Sherlock he would end up proving Molly wrong.

"It's strange, if I didn't know any better I would think he actually had feelings like a normal human."

"Greg…" John clenched his teeth, like Molly he was beginning to get annoyed when people acted like Sherlock was somehow less than human. Sure the man could be cold, calculating, even seem excited at the most inopportune time, but the both of them had seen a very real human side to the man. It was there, he just refused to allow most to see it.

"I know, I know, but you have to admit that until everything with Moriarty he acted more like a machine than anything. Before you came along there was a rumor going around the Yard that he was actually an experimental android created by the government." There had been a pool going around about how long it would take before he malfunctioned.

"Sherlock is more human than any other man I know, he is just better at hiding it than anyone. Look, Greg, I'll see you around, if he is as bad as you say it could be a danger night." John knew it would probably be best to call Mycroft, at least to let him know. He hadn't seen any signs of Sherlock using or even smoking since his return, but one never really did know when it came to him.

"Yeah, see you."

John watched Greg leave before fishing his mobile out and sending a text off to his wife. They had been together long enough and he had told her about Sherlock, so she should hopefully understand. After he finished typing out the message, he turned and headed inside.

"Sherlock?" After speaking to Lestrade it didn't surprise him to find Sherlock absentmindedly plucking the strings on his violin. Greg had been right, he looked the same as he had that long ago Christmas night when they had all believed The Woman had been murdered.

"She was angry, very angry. She wanted to hurt Jessica in a way she hadn't wanted to her other victims. It was pure hate that drove her this time." Sherlock tapped his violin bow against his leg, his mind going over what he had seen earlier.

"Sherlock?"

"There was very little left of Jessica when I found her, she tore her completely apart. But why? Why kill the mother this time when she hadn't touched the other families? What was different, was it the circumstances or maybe she wanted to do this to the others but Jessica was the only one she could actually get at." Jessica had been homeless, an easy target.

"Sherlock?"

"Was it something personal, had she known Jessica…"

"Sherlock!" John reached forward and grabbed the bow from Sherlock's hand, removing it and setting it on the mantelpiece.

"What? I'm trying to think." Sherlock frowned up at John, unable to remember Lestrade leaving and his friend entering.

"Sherlock, just take a break for a moment, will you?" Tired from just watching the other man think, John sat down in his chair.

"I don't have time for breaks, if she is branching out she needs to be caught. Quickly." He plucked a few strings on his violin rather violently.

"And if you don't take a break all you are going to do is work yourself up." Though he had yet to see it, John always feared the day they would see Sherlock crash and burn from a case.

"She has to be stopped John." The violin in Sherlock's hand made a sickening twang as he roughly set it down on the floor beside his chair.

John watched as his friend shot up and paced around the room. Sherlock's eyes continuously slid over to the evidence wall, his lips pressed tightly together.

"It is not your fault." John stood himself, coming to stand beside the other man.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his face turning slowly towards John.

"I never said it was." His voice was deep and soft, and sounded more dangerous than John had heard in a long time.

"You didn't have to. Look, Sherlock, I think you need to step back for a bit. Not long, but just enough to calm down, you are a little too close to this murder. You will catch this woman, I have no doubt about that, but you are not helping anyone by wearing yourself out.

"Now sit down and take a breath, doctor's orders." John was now sure that it could easily turn out to be a danger night, and he would admit that it scared him a bit.

"You're my blogger not my doctor."

"Just sit down before I call Mycroft." When he acted like this John found it hard to believe his friend was a full grown adult.

Sherlock glared at John, but surprisingly he sat back down in his chair, the violin back in his hands.

"Good, now just sit there and I'll be back." John took one last long look towards his friend before slipping into the kitchen and calling Mary.

_"Hello? John, is everything alright?"_ Mary sounded worried as she answered. She might not be the best of friends with Sherlock, and had fantasized about his murder many times, but she never actually wanted him dead. Not really.

"I'm not really sure. I guess he knew the last two victims. Don't be angry, but I think I should stay here for a while. I'll be home late. It's just, I'm worried." While in the kitchen John looked through the cabinets and fridge and just shook his head. It was amazing that Sherlock was still alive, seeing as there was not even a packet of year old crisps in the flat.

_"Should we call his brother?"_ It was not that she would refuse to allow John to help his friend, what kind of woman would she be if she balked about it. Sherlock was a troubled man, and she knew had any of her friends been going through a hard time she would want to help anyway she could.

"No, not right yet. I think he just needs time, I don't think it has ever been someone he was close to. Besides Adler, but that was altogether something else." There had been attraction, sure, but no real affection. At least not on Sherlock's side.

_"Alright I guess, call me if you are going to be too late."_ Mary doubted John would be home anytime soon, but it was just something she had to learn to deal with. After Sherlock revealed himself to be alive it became immediately apparent that Sherlock just came along with the deal. It could be bothersome, and Mary had thought about finding the man a wife of his own many times, but in the end she knew if she wanted John in her life she would have to learn to deal with the detective.

"I will, love you." John was thankful for Mary, he knew she didn't really like Sherlock, but unlike the other women he had been with, she tolerated him. And in a way he knew she understood him.

_"Love you too."_

John set his phone on the table after clicking off and went back to set into what had once been his chair. For a while he just sat there watching his friend. He had been much darker since he returned back from the dead, as though a permanent shadow had attached itself to the man. It worried him, he was frightened of the changes it would bring in the man he considered his best friend.

"You should probably send a text to Molly and let her know I'm not hurt." Sherlock didn't remove his eyes from the low fire in the hearth, his fingers running along the length of his violin.

"Um, why would I do that?" John blinked, not just at the seemingly random remark, but at how caring his friend sounded. Before everything happened he would never have given a thought to anyone but himself. It never would have crossed his mind to reassure anyone of his wellbeing.

"We both know she was the one that sent you here." Sherlock's eyes fixed on John's, a single brow lifting.

"Then why don't you text her yourself?" John motioned to the mobile sitting on the desk across the room.

"She won't believe me if I tell her I'm fine." His eyes returned to the fire, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Right." John stood from his chair, his head shaking as he retrieved his phone. He wasn't sure what was going on between his two friends, but it wasn't just Sherlock that had changed since he returned. Before sending off a quick text to Molly he looked back towards the detective.

He hadn't lied to Lestrade, Sherlock was more human than anyone. But John had to revise his original assessment, he used to be better at hiding it. He wasn't so sure he was anymore.

* * *

Author's Note: So this chapter and part of the next were supposed to have been one chapter, but it just seemed to feel like it was running on so I split it.

Next Chapter: Mary and Molly talk, Molly visits Sherlock, Sherlock reluctantly sleeps and eats, Sherlock and Molly talk about the case, Sherlock has more on his mind than the case.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	6. I'll give you some bread,and some milk

Chapter Five: I'll give you some bread, and some milk by-and-by

* * *

Molly bit into her chip, chewing the hot potato slowly as she sat across from her friend. Molly and Mary had hit it off immediately the first time they met, it hadn't really taken all that long before they called themselves friends. Oh there had been a bit of a problem when Sherlock had returned, Mary thought he should be eviscerated for what he had done to John, all the while Molly thought it very bad taste to kill your lover's best friend. Eventually Molly was able to get Mary to see her way, but not before her spirited friend kneed Sherlock between the legs.

"You do know that you don't actually have to chew each bite a hundred times?" Mary flicked a chip towards the woman in front of her, watching as Molly blinked a couple of times at the fallen bit of potato that had just hit her square in the forehead.

"What?" Slowly Molly set the rest of the chip in her hand down. She knew she probably should have been paying a bit more attention to her friend, but her mind was on other things at the moment.

"Molly, you have been chewing that bite of chip for over a minute now. What is the matter?" Mary had seen Molly act this way several times before, and it annoyed her that it always involved the same man. It wasn't that she had that much against him, in fact he was a good man, if an annoying one. But it bothered her how much of a hold he had on Molly, and he didn't even realize it.

"It's nothing." Molly shook off her friend's question, not really wanting to get into it about Sherlock with her. The last time they had a conversation about him it ended up in Molly giving Mary the silent treatment for over a week.

"It's not nothing. Does it have something to do with Sherlock?" She just knew it, the bastard didn't even realize how much the woman before her loved him. Or at least he better not, not with the way he treated her all the time. She would castrate him if it turned out differently.

"Mary, I can't…" Why did everyone think any time she was upset it had to do with Sherlock? Sure, this time it actually did have to do with him, or at least in part. Still, other things did bring her down.

"It's alright, John's told me all about the murders." Well, all that he was willing to tell her. And for that she was actually grateful, she really didn't need details.

"It is so horrible Mary, this woman is killing children!" Molly tried to keep her voice down, but knew she had failed when a couple a few tables down sent her a disapproving look. She just gave them a half shrug and turned back to her companion.

"How do they even know that it is a woman?" Not that she thought it was a man, but she still had trouble comprehending how Sherlock figured things like this out.

"Sherlock is certain, something about the way the children are murdered. But woman or not it is horrid, I'm not sure I can handle any more of it. I've had children on my table before, it is pretty much to be expected, children die just as well. But this is too much, this woman is going out there and taking kids." Molly kept her voice lower, thankfully not garnering any more attention around them.

"It is understandable to be upset." Mary leaned forward and grasped Molly's hand in hers, squeezing slightly. She could never do the job Molly had, she knew she would break down the first body that ended up on her table. Hell, she cried like a baby once when the cat died in a book she had been reading, she was just too sensitive to such things.

"The problem is I shouldn't allow this to get to me so much. I remember being told by one of my professors that I would face something like this one day, and I was supposed to remain apart from it. I have always been able to in the past." She slipped her hand from Mary's, delving it and her other one through her unbound hair. She was normally better at hiding her reactions to the bodies on her table, actually most of them didn't even bother her, but the night before she had a nightmare where the child on the table had been her own. The same little sweet faced child she had always imagined her and Sherlock's child would look like.

"You are human Molly, I doubt even your professor would be able to remain stoic in the face of this. Don't condemn yourself over it." Sitting back in her chair Mary looked her friend over. Molly looked tired, the small purple bruises under her eyes a very good indication that she most likely hadn't slept well the night before.

"Sherlock knew the last child." Molly looked down at her plate and pushed it away, no longer able to stand the thought of food.

"I know, John told me about it." John had always told her about his various adventures with Sherlock, including his reaction to the supposed death of someone he only called 'The Woman.' Still, Mary found it hard to see the man actually become upset at a death. Apparently she had been wrong, as John had recounted the night before to her after he finally returned home. It really made her worry about the detective.

"I had his mother to examine this morning. What that woman did to her, and to think Sherlock found her like that. I'm not sure what I would have done faced with someone I knew ending up like she did." Molly shuddered as she remembered what she had encountered in the body bag on her table. Knowing that Sherlock had found the woman like that made her want to run to him and wrap him up in her arms. Of course she doubted he would welcome such a thing.

"I really don't think Sherlock is taking it as well as he wants everyone to think." Mary thought back to the conversation with her husband, about the worry she saw in John's eyes as he spoke about his best friend.

"Why do you say that? John said he was doing fine." Molly sat up straight in her chair, a million thoughts running through her mind. A million different things that Sherlock could get up to when he wasn't in his right mind. Or in reality, the dozens of drugs that she knew he had easy access to.

"John stayed over at 221B last night, didn't come home until late. He said that Sherlock was acting strange. I guess even Greg noticed." Not that Mary would know when Sherlock acted strange, everything he did was strange to her.

"I'm not surprised. My God Mary, you wouldn't believe what that woman did to the mother." Molly fought the rolling lump of bile in the back of her throat.

"Please Molly, I don't have the stomach for discussing dead bodies at lunch. What I would much rather discuss is why you blush every time I say Sherlock's name. I thought you were over him." Much better topic, Mary thought. She was used to dealing with people while alive, and she would much rather keep it that way.

"I was never over him, I just realized that nothing would ever happen between us." Something that had taken her the entirety of the two years he had been gone. During that time she had created all sorts of scenarios in her head. Everything from Sherlock climbing in her window in the middle of the night while still on the run to him getting down on one knee and confessing his undying love to her after he returned for good.

One day she had been sitting by her window, watching the rain while enjoying her tea and another fantasy, that she finally realized just how silly she was being. It was that afternoon that she daydreamed her last fantasy and then locked them all away. She knew he would never love her, even if she continued to love him. It had taken her much longer to be alright with that.

"Molly…"

"Don't start on me Mary, I know you don't like him, but you really don't know him." It bothered her how Mary treated Sherlock. Fine, she got it that they didn't like one another, but it was tiring the way Mary would just go on and on about it.

"I know enough." Mary crossed her arms over her chest and slumped back in her chair. So maybe she was still a bit bitter about what his two year "death" had done to John, but she was his wife and it was her job to look out for her husband.

"No you don't. Sure, he is an arse and a bastard, but he does care in his own way. He hurt John, but so did I by helping him, and yet I don't see you out for my blood." Why was it that she seemed to be the exception to the rule? Everyone was angry at Sherlock and Mycroft, but for her part in it everyone just patted her on the shoulder and gave her a; "poor Molly."

"But you are different." It had actually bothered Mary at first, but after meeting Molly she found it was hard to hate the woman. Molly was probably one of the sweetest women she knew.

"No, I'm not. I helped him stage his death, I knew he was alive all this time and I kept that information from John. I am no more innocent in this." So many times she had wanted to go over and tell him, every time she knew he went to the grave, every time he called to reminisce and broke down crying instead. So many times, and yet she had allowed him to continue to hurt with her silence. No, she was no better than Sherlock when it came to that.

"Yeah, but you are much more likeable." Mary picked up another one of her chips and tossed it at Molly again.

"Mary…"

"Alright, I just don't want to see either you or John hurt again, and if you don't get over Sherlock you are going to get hurt." Mary couldn't see what it was about the man that garnered so much loyalty, but it wasn't just John and Molly that loved Sherlock so wholeheartedly.

"I know, but let me worry about that. If I get hurt it will be my fault. Now, you have to get back to work and I'm going to go check on Sherlock." Molly stood up, grabbing her bag to toss across her shoulders.

"I'm sure he's…" Mary snapped her mouth shut when Molly sent her a rather withering glare.

"I'm sure he is, but I would like to see for myself. I'll call you tonight."

* * *

Molly smiled at Mrs Hudson as the door opened, leaning in to give her a bit of a half hug. The worry over Sherlock had brought her straight to 221, those previous scenarios driving her mad while she mentally urged the cabbie to move faster.

"How is he?" Molly pulled back, waiting for an answer when all she wanted to do was push past the older woman in front of her and bound up those stairs.

"I'm not sure, he's been unusually quiet. It's frightening actually." Mrs Hudson looked behind her and to the top of the stairs. Her boy was worrying her to no end. She knew he was having nightmares about his faked death and whatever else he had done while away, but whenever she had made it up to check on him he was always composed. Not that he could so easily fool her, but she allowed him his delusions if they gave him comfort. At least for now.

"John said he was doing alright, but after what… I'm just going to check up on him." She was sure Mrs Hudson could see right through her, but then again she was beginning to not care. It wasn't like she ever tried to hide her feelings for the man, no use in starting now.

"Of course love, go on up. I wonder if he realizes just how lucky he is, having someone like you care for him." Mrs Hudson closed the door as Molly stepped in, and looked over the young woman. She wasn't as put together as she had been the last time around, it looked as though she may have just finished at work. She wished her boy would open his eyes a bit more and see just what he had in front of him, he could be so happy if he just looked.

"I doubt it, he is observant of many things, but in that respect I think he is rather blind." It always seemed to surprise him when he found out that someone liked him let alone loved him. For so many years he had heard about how strange, how unnatural he was, that Molly figured he began to believe it himself, and that he was unworthy of affection.

Molly left the older woman with a small smile as she bound up the stairs as quickly as she could without falling and hurting herself. Sherlock was lying face up on the sofa, his hands under his chin when she finally made it to the top and through the door. And by the look of him Molly didn't think he had been to bed yet.

"Please tell me you have slept at least an hour." Molly dropped her bag on the floor just inside the door, her eyes remaining on the man on the sofa.

"Sleep takes time away from thinking." Sherlock didn't react to Molly's voice beyond the simple sentence. It really didn't surprise him that she had shown up. He knew that the text John sent off wouldn't be enough to convince her. Mostly since he knew that Molly had lunch with Mary whenever she worked only the morning shift. He doubted Mary could ever keep her mouth shut.

"It also refreshes your mind and allows you to think more clearly. Something you should know." It still surprised her how much Sherlock tried to get away with. He understood how the body worked better than most doctors, which meant he knew how much damage he was doing to himself with his bloody antics!

"I don't require as much sleep as you." He waved a hand out to the side. He wished Molly and everyone would just drop it and allow him to continue on with his work. Mostly after the latest murders, he needed to catch that woman and he couldn't do it if everyone showed up and tried to get him to talk about his feelings. It was damned annoying.

"Yes you do. Now, if you please, get up and go to bed for a few hours." Molly had finally had enough, the stress from the murders; the little sleep she had had herself; the pain of dealing with unrequited love. She was done, and Sherlock was about to learn that when Molly was done she no longer put up with anyone's shit.

"I don't need mollycoddling." Sherlock sneered at looked at the woman that was now beside him out of the corner of his eye. She had her hands pressed firmly atop her hips, fingers growing white from how tightly she had them clenched. That was all he needed, Molly Hooper on a mission. He needed to think, not a distraction.

"Bad puns disprove that theory of yours." Holding back the urge to roll her eyes, Molly instead gave into the one to grab the pillow behind his head and pull it from behind his head rather forcefully. The soft thump of Sherlock's head against the arm of the sofa brought a small amount of satisfaction, even if she did want to lean down and give the bump a kiss.

She normally wasn't a very violent person, but she had done a lot, including risking her job, to save him. She wasn't about to sit by and allow him to make himself sick because he didn't know how to handle the murder of someone he knew.

"I didn't…" Sherlock sat up, his hand going around to where his head had hit the sofa. Molly had never treated him that way before, even when she had told him off that one Christmas she had stuttered to get it out. Now as he watched her stand there, pillow in hand, he wondered once again on the changing parameters of their friendship.

"Get up Sherlock, I'm tired, you're tired, don't make me do something drastic." Molly tossed the pillow at the other end of the sofa. She was trying very hard not to giggle at the incredulous look on Sherlock's face.

"No matter what the rest of you might think, I'm not scared of my brother." It didn't matter that his brother thought he was. Mycroft was about as scary as a mewling kitten.

"I wasn't talking about Mycroft." Ignoring the inquisitive look that Sherlock sent her way, Molly went to the top of the stairs.

"Molly?" Sherlock stood up and took a couple of slow steps towards the infuriating woman.

"I wonder what Mrs Hudson would do if I told her you haven't slept in almost two days?" Normally it would have been an empty threat, one that Sherlock would have been able to see straight through. Only Molly meant it this time 'round, and she knew Sherlock knew it.

"You, Molly Hooper, are evil." Not even John had ever thought to send Mrs Hudson after him. It was clever, and oh so very evil. He would have to reevaluate what he knew about Molly.

"And you, Sherlock Holmes, are going to go to bed. It is either that or I talk to Mrs Hudson and you have to endure her smothering. Remember what she was like just after you returned?" Molly turned and gave Sherlock a smug smile. She definitely remembered those first few weeks, the fussing, the copious amounts of tea practically shoved down his throat, the early morning check-ins. From what she heard from John one such check-in included Mrs Hudson barging into the bathroom while Sherlock was showering because she swore she heard him fall. In the end it had turned out to be a fallen bottle of shampoo.

Sherlock felt himself shiver at the memory. He would rather have John punch him again than Mrs Hudson fretting over him all night and day.

"You do realize I need to solve this case?" Sherlock waved his hand over to the wall, the newest pictures already tacked against the map.

"Yes, and I also realize that you are wearing yourself thin. A few hours are not going to make that much difference. Now, to bed before I call up Mrs Hudson." Molly held in her laugh as she watched the grown man trudge off to his room like a chastened child. If there was one thing about the change in their relationship since his return that she enjoyed, it was how easy she found it to stand up to him. Not to mention how he reacted to her new behavior. She hadn't realized just what a huge child he was before.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't expected to fall asleep after Molly sent him to his room like a wayward child, but it wasn't more than five minutes after he set his head on the pillow that he was gone. He finally woke three hours later when his ears picked up the sound of metal clanging in the kitchen.

He slipped on his dressing gown over his mussed shirt and trousers and made his way to where the noise was coming from. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes landing on Molly as she stood stirring something on the range.

"I don't eat while working on a case." His eyes looked around the room quickly to make sure she hadn't messed up or moved any of his experiments. Once he confirmed that everything remained untouched he turned back to Molly.

"No, but then again your cases normally take a day or two. You can not go without food for weeks without killing yourself." Molly turned around and pointed the spoon in her hand at Sherlock. She ignored the drops of soup that quickly dotted the floor at her feet, besides the fact that she would clean it up later, she knew much worse had been spilled on the floor of that kitchen. It made her shudder to think of just what.

"I've had enough to sustain me." He didn't like the way having Molly in his kitchen, cooking him food, made him feel. It was strange and made him just a bit dizzy.

"Mrs Hudson's custard tarts do not count." She had already talked to the older woman about what she had observed about him the past couple of weeks, and it only made Molly even more determined to help him.

"Molly, I know I've allowed you to get away with much more since I've returned, but…." Taking a step towards Molly, Sherlock was stopped in his tracks as she once again turned around with the spoon aimed right at his chest.

"But nothing! Look Sherlock I want you to solve this case as much as anyone, but I don't want you harming yourself because of it. Now, just sit down and at least humor me and have a bowl of this." Molly flung the hand with the spoon until she pointed at the table, her whole body stiff as she waited to see what Sherlock would do.

Molly had to hold in the laugh that threatened to burst from her lips as Sherlock practically pouted and sat down at the table. It was hard to believe that he actually listened to her, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth and instead poured a sizable bowl of the stew she had made and set it in front of him.

Sherlock looked down at the bowl before him, swirling his spoon in it a few times before reluctantly taking a mouthful at the frown Molly threw his way.

"There, that isn't all that bad, now is it?" She knew she was far from the best cook in the world, but she knew she could cook. Being single all those years paid off. She had spent her nights and weekends home alone working to perfect her skills in the kitchen.

"The quality of your cooking was never in question. The process of digestion slows my cognitive abilities, therefore making this counterproductive." Counterproductive, but he had to admit Molly was an exceptional cook, the stew was warm and hearty.

"No, starving yourself is counterproductive. Try as hard as you like Sherlock, you are just as human as the rest of us. Do I really need to explain what happens to the body when it is refused nourishment for days on end?" Slows his cognitive abilities?! Sometimes Molly wondered how a man as brilliant as him could end up being so stupid at times.

"I do not need a biology lesson." Despite his words Sherlock took another bite of his meal.

"Then don't give me reason to give you one. Eat up."

Sherlock resisted the urge to snap at Molly and instead worked to quickly finish his bowl of stew, hoping that she wouldn't force another on him. It was wonderful, but he really couldn't think when he felt full.

Thankfully Molly seemed satisfied that he finished what she had given him, and simply went to sit in John's old chair with a self satisfied smile stretching her lips. He followed her, watching her the entire time as he lowered himself into his own chair.

"While I am flattered by the attention you are giving me, I was truthful before, I do not need to be mollycoddled. I am a grown man." Not that anyone seemed to notice since he returned, mostly the women in his life.

"I know that Sherlock, but even grown men need to be taken care of sometimes." Molly leaned over and gave Sherlock's knee a pat. She would never understand why grown men thought that a woman saw him as a little boy if she tried to care for him. Her father had been the same way, and from what Mary told her, so was John.

"Why would I need to be taken care of, I'm perfectly fine." Sherlock tried to ignore the tight feeling in his stomach at Molly's touch. It had been fleeting, but it had felt as though her hand remained on his knee, burning into his flesh. It was both uncomfortable and pleasant at the same time.

"No, you are not. You forget Sherlock, I've seen you at some of your worst. I saw you when no one else had, and I still see you. These last two murders, they were personal." Why couldn't he just acknowledge that she could see him, that she had always seen him and that it hadn't changed in the two years since he had been gone. Everyone else in his life bought into the mask he liked to wear, the one where he appeared cold and distant with the world, but not her. She saw his pain, saw when things upset him, and she was no longer going to allow him to try and don that mask around her.

"I knew them, that is all." Sherlock reached down to grab his violin, his fingers curling around it and pulling it to his lap. He hated when she deduced him and he needed the comfort of the smooth wood of his violin in his hand, he need that music at his fingertips to keep him centered.

"You knew them, interacted with them. It is different when you know the person on that table." Molly could hardly breathe just thinking about finding a friend on her table, it was so much more personal. When the body belonged to a stranger it was easy to step back, to see only a body, a shell, but it was different when seeing someone you knew. Someone you had talked to, joked with, cared for.

"This is hardly the first time I have been confronted with the dead body of an acquaintance." He plucked a couple of strings forgoing the bow that remained on the mantle where John had left it.

"True, but the last time you didn't take it very well either. You pulled yourself away from your friends, became disinterested in everything around you. I won't allow you to do that this time." She could see Sherlock pulling away, his mind and focus slipping from her. Tired of it she reached over and grabbed the violin from his hands and set it on the table beside her.

"What makes you think you have the right?" Sherlock snarled at her, at the liberties she thought to take.

"I'm your friend that is what gives me that right. You allowed me to help once before, allow me to again. Even if it is just sitting here in total silence." She knew she was practically pleading by this point, she would even get down on her knees if he would just allow her to help him through this.

Sherlock didn't speak, he just slipped his eyes away from her and rested them on the fire in the hearth. John was the only other person that showed him that kind of devotion, the only other one that wanted to help him because he saw something in him that others, not even himself, saw. It was a wonderful and a very frightening thing. John was always in danger because of his friendship with him, if Molly continued to grow closer to him so would she.

He couldn't go back to the way he had been before John. He couldn't return to being lonely, and he had been very, very lonely. His eyes slid from the fire to Molly and back again several times over the next hour, his mind a jumbled mess. Images of Jessica's body, young Tom on that table, Molly's smiling face as he ate the stew she made him, Molly looking into the fire, her hand on his knee, the pictures from the other murders. Over and over again they swirled around his mind until he couldn't sit still and he jumped from the chair to go and stand in front of the opposite wall.

"She tore Jessica completely apart. She was feeling so much anger and hate. When she kills the children there is almost an air of caring in how she does it. It is like she is trying to protect them, but from what? What is the connection?" He felt better once he could focus his mind on the case, and only the case. He had to force all those other thoughts and feelings from his mind and concentrate on finding the connection and the murderer.

"Protecting them? You can't be serious?" It was the most absurd thing she had ever heard.

"Very much so. Think about it Molly, she swaddles them up, holds them, rocks them as she kills them. She does everything to make sure they don't suffer. I'm wrong about this being about her child, this is about her."

Molly watched as Sherlock paced back and forth, his hands alternating between running through his hair and setting against his chin. He looked mad, his eyes moving wildly around. Molly feared he was about to come unhinged.

"Something happened to her when she was a child, something that has made her need to protect these children and hate the parents." Sherlock waved his hand between the pictures pinned to the wall and Molly.

"You think she may have been abused?" It made a kind of sense, but none of the children had been abused and only one of the parents showed any signs of violence. Still it was the best lead they had at the moment.

"It is very possible." Sherlock stopped in front of the wall facing away from Molly, his eyes roaming over everything he had tacked there.

"This helps right, you can narrow it down now." She doubted this would end up being the one thing to catch the woman, but it surely helps in some manner. Or at least she really hoped it would.

"Molly, do you know how many children are abused in London alone? The chances that I will be able to find our murderer by this alone is slim. Even if she was abused, it would have been years ago and she may have been one of the many that were so frightened that they never reported it. All this does is explain why, not who." Sherlock sat back down and continued to stare at the fire, his mind turning over and over as he thought about the case. The only problem was his mind seemed determined to continuously dwell on how he found Jessica and the woman sharing the warmth of the fire with him. He had never had so much of a problem keeping focused on a case before.

Molly sat back in her chair, bringing her legs to curl up under her. She watched silently as Sherlock continued to stare into the fire. He still looked like he was about to simply blow up, but at least it didn't look like he was going to pass out anymore. Tired and lulled by the warmth and comforting glow of the fire, Molly closed her eyes planning to just relax for a few minutes before returning home.

When Sherlock looked up two hours later it was to the image of Molly, curled tightly in John's chair, fast asleep. He took a moment to study her, she was so small that she fit in the chair with enough room left over. Sleeping there she reminded him of a child, lost and alone, and he didn't like the clenching his stomach gave him at that thought.

He huffed to himself; things between the two of them had changed since he returned. He knew she still had feelings for him, but she had become confident in herself enough that she no longer allowed him to push her around. But of everything that changed, the most alarming was the way he saw the petite woman. Somehow since that night two years ago and that very moment Sherlock saw not an asset for his use, but a beautiful young woman that had decided that she would love a man that had always been told he was undeserving of love.

He shook his head of those thoughts and retrieved a quilt from his bed to cover Molly with. Once he had tucked her in he returned to his chair and continued to stare into the fire for the remainder of the night, his mind swirling with images of not the case, but the sleeping woman in front of him.

* * *

Author's Note: Ok, seriously this is one of my favorite chapters, so much Sherlolly here. Also, recently I was able to finally watch the new Ep, and while I'll not give any spoilers for those who have yet to see it all I will say is, I LOVE MARY, and while I would have loved to write her how she is in the show I have already established her character in the past chapter, so it will remain that way for the rest of the story. I already can't wait to write a story that is Season 3 compliant so I can write that Mary, because I seriously ADORE her! I already have a few ideas but I really want to wait until all three eps are shown in the States here.

Next Chapter: Sherlock takes liberties that annoy Molly, Sherlock and Molly work together, Homeless network, John hopes he is wrong and comes with food, Sherlock is annoyed and John is shocked, and John and Molly speak.

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	7. And Still Insists He Sees The Ghosts

Chapter Six: And Still Insists He Sees The Ghosts

* * *

When Molly woke the next morning it was to find that she had fallen asleep in John's old chair. She blinked a few times to try and clear her vision. It wasn't the first time she had fallen asleep in that position, though the first time at Sherlock's, and she knew that a headache was most likely later in the day. Her neck protested as she turned to look over at the other chair, that she dearly hoped was empty, and found Sherlock in the exact same position as he had been the night before.

"Have you slept at all, or even moved?" She sat up fully, groaning at the sharp pain that shot through her back and shoulders. She was getting too old to be falling asleep in anything other than a bed.

Sherlock looked over to Molly, a rather bland expression painted on his face as he tilted his head towards the cup and plate setting beside her. He had spent the night trying to focus on the case, only to find that Molly refused to leave his mind. It was frustrating and he had half a mind to tell Molly to leave once she awoke, sadly the other half decided that the soft snores of the woman was comforting and didn't want to be away from her presence for any length of time.

Molly looked at the table beside her with a raised brow, it was hard to believe that Sherlock would actually bring her breakfast. It made her smile and she was just about to thank him when he waved her off as he went back to looking at the cold hearth.

"No, don't, Mrs Hudson didn't mind." He would have to have a talk with the older woman, she apparently was keeping tabs on him as she already had Molly's food when she brought him his morning tea.

Molly was just able to keep herself from rolling her eyes at the man, she really should have known. Sometimes she thought he had changed, at least somewhat; was a little more caring, and then he did something like that which made him seem just as cold as ever. Shaking off the annoyed feeling, she looked over to the clock and gasped.

"I should have left over an hour ago! I've got morning shift today." Molly jumped from the chair, having to catch herself on the table as she started to tip over. The morning was already turning out to be a bad one. She had rarely ever been late for work, not that she really ever had anything in her life that would cause her to be late.

"Don't worry about it, I called you in already." Looking away from the cold hearth, Sherlock watched as Molly stopped in her tracks, her mouth gapping open quite distastefully.

"Sherlock…I can't…why did you…" John had told her about how highhanded Sherlock could be when they were working a case, but Molly had figured he had embellished his tales just a bit. Apparently he hadn't been.

"Molly, do finish your sentences." It always astounded him when his friends didn't appreciate the things he had done for them. He had called her in, with a good excuse mind you, so she wouldn't be reprimanded. He doubted she would have been happy had he allowed her to sleep as late as she had and not called her in.

"Sherlock, you can't just call me in like that. I have a job, a real paying job, and I can't just take off whenever I want. Why would you do that?" Molly sat back down in her chair and continued to gape at the man before her. She probably wouldn't get in trouble, hopefully wouldn't get in trouble, but he needed to learn about boundaries.

"I'm missing something, I have to be. I need your help to fully go over the case files." So maybe he hadn't been fully thinking about Molly, but he did need her help after all.

"Why didn't you just call John?" Surely he would rather work with John than her. Sure they had become pretty good friends, but John had always been his partner when on a case. It still shocked her that he had allowed her to help out as much as she already had.

"Seemed rather needless when I had you here already. You are competent enough, no need to bother John." In fact Sherlock was beginning to believe that she was equal to John when it came to puzzle solving. Not that that was a surprise considering what she did for a living.

"You called him already and he refused, didn't he?" Molly sat forward and raised a single brow, a small smirk playing on her lips.

Sherlock didn't respond and just stood up, ignoring Molly as he entered the kitchen, shouting back at her a couple of minutes later.

"Now hurry and finish your breakfast, I don't want to wait all day."

Molly did roll her eyes then, but still finished off her food before rushing off into the bathroom. If there was one thing she had learned since she first met Sherlock, it was to pick your battles.

* * *

"If Lestrade had just contacted me from the beginning…" Sherlock sneered down at the files that were scattered about the kitchen table. With a frustrated huff he ruffled his hair before stretching his neck from side to side. The pop that rang out in the room echoed off the walls and made Molly wince.

"You know why he couldn't. He is taking a huge risk as it is now. If he gets caught he could lose more than his job, he isn't like you…" Molly closed the file in her hand, her mind still flipping through the pictures of smiling children and recalling what they had looked like by the time they had found their way on her table. It was disheartening, and all Molly wanted to do was take a break. Not that she could see one coming anytime in the future.

"Of course not, though he is marginally smarter than most." Probably the third or fourth down on the list, maybe five actually if he counted his brother…which he really didn't want to.

"I meant, he doesn't have an older brother to bail him out if things get out of hand." Not that she thought Mycroft had bailed him out all that much, Sherlock normally knew what he was doing. Though there were times…

"Mycroft doesn't bail me out, he is not my keeper." He might have snapped a bit more than he had intended to, but he didn't like to think that Molly thought of him like his brother did; a little child that needed to be looked after.

"Of course not, Sherlock." Molly turned her eyes down from the man before her, grabbing at another file. She took a sharp breath in when she noticed the picture that had been pinned just inside the file. It wasn't as shocking for her as it would have been for others, mostly since she had seen the body earlier in her morgue. Still she couldn't help the small amount of bile that rose at the photo of Jessica. No wonder Sherlock was bothered, even if he refused to admit he was.

"What I would like to know is why she killed Jessica. What about the other families?" Sherlock had been right, it didn't fit, but it was too much of a coincidence that Jessica had been found dead right after her son.

Molly yelped as Sherlock jolted up and plucked his mobile from his pocket. She watched silently as he dialed and proceeded to speak without giving the person on the other side a chance to even say hello. She had unfortunately been on the receiving end of such a phone call, more times than she would like to count.

"Lestrade, put surveillance on the families of the other victims." Maybe it had been her plan all along, and Jessica was just the first of the parents to be murdered.

_"For once Sherlock, I'm already ahead of you."_ If Lestrade sounded smug, no one could blame him. This was a rare chance, thinking of something before Sherlock.

"Has there been anything suspicious?"

_"Everything has been perfectly quiet. Not even a whisper."_ And the smugness was gone, not because he was upset that his suspicions hadn't turned out, but because it meant another dead end…and child.

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear with a huff, clicking off and pocketing it before turning to pace the kitchen. Why Jessica? What was the connection?

"What is different about Jessica that would compel our murderer to kill her?" Sherlock tapped his lips, turning this way and that as he quickly covered the kitchen floor. He really needed a larger place to pace.

"She's homeless?" Molly had been trying to figure it out herself. From what she could gather, Jessica was a nice young woman, it didn't make sense that the murderer would choose her out of all the others to kill.

"Yes, well no, not exactly. She was accessible, easy to reach without anyone seeing her. If I hadn't gone to speak to her it may have been days before she was found…. Molly, I need to step out." Shuffling through the files on the table, Sherlock grinned as he found a blank piece of paper.

"Alright, do you need me to go with you?" Molly watched as Sherlock quickly scribbled down something on the paper before folding it up.

"No, I won't be a minute." Tucking the note into his shirt pocket, Sherlock turned and grabbed his coat and scarf. There was always something he missed…and he was hoping there was something their murderer missed as well.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly wished she could just read Sherlock's mind like a book. That when he thought up something and refused to tell she could just go up and find the page with it printed on it. It would make things so much easier.

"Research. Just continue looking through those files, I won't be long."

Molly watched as he left and after shaking her head she looked back down to the files on the table and continued to work. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but then again she guessed neither did Sherlock. It was bothersome, how could this woman kill so many children and get away with it? How had she lasted this long without giving something away? Flipping open another file, Molly leaned down over the papers and photos, looking for just one thing out of place.

It wasn't fifteen minutes later that Sherlock returned, sans note and continued where he left off without a look or word in Molly's direction.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what it was you did?" Molly figured if she ever did figure out the secret of reading Sherlock she would be rich. She would probably go down in history books, seeing as not even his brother seemed to understand him.

"The reason why my Homeless Network works is because people tend to have a blind spot when it comes to them. They don't want to think about the fact that there are people out there starving, cold and dying. So they just choose not to see them, to pretend they are not there so they don't have to feel guilty about not helping them.

"Because of that the homeless gather information at an alarming rate. They see things, hear things, all because people just don't see them." Sherlock had learned long ago that the homeless were like ghosts, they could move in and out of places silently, gathering information, all without anyone knowing.

"Good to know, but how does this help?"

"Think Molly, the murderer felt safe in approaching Jessica because she figured that she wouldn't be seen, and Jessica wouldn't be missed. Only…" Sherlock leaned down over Molly, his face coming dangerously close to hers.

"Only it may have backfired and someone saw her." A witness, if they could just find a witness they could possibly catch the woman, and hopefully before she killed again.

"Precisely." Sherlock smiled, a bright grin he reserved only for his friends. He kept his eyes focused on Molly's, his mind quickly going to the night before and how peaceful she had looked curled up in front of his fire.

Molly felt her heart stop for a moment. She hated that she felt that way, that she felt so elated that Sherlock seemed to be proud of her. She didn't need his approval, but good lord she wanted it. And for that she hated herself. This was not how the new Molly was supposed to react. But damn it was hard not to with the way he was looking at her.

Sherlock pushed himself away, straightened his clothes and cleared his throat. He should have just sent her off to work that morning, she was a distraction…and yet she had also been a great help.

Molly shook herself and the feeling he had left her with and simply continued on. Though she couldn't deny that throughout the rest of the day she found herself taking glances at Sherlock from the corner of her eye.

* * *

It was just growing dark when the silence of 221B was broken by the door opening. John looked around inside the door, his eyes settling on Molly's bag. Still, she could have forgotten it the day before, and so he entered the kitchen, groaning at what he found there.

"Oh, I was really hoping that Mrs Hudson was wrong." When she had called him earlier to…well to gossip really…he had hoped she had just been into her "soothers" and had imagined everything. But there she was, Molly, sitting at one end of the table with Sherlock next to her, both shifting through case files.

"Hello John, and what were you hoping she was wrong about?" Smiling up at John, Sherlock already had a pretty good idea about what his landlady had been talking to him about. That woman only ever had one thing on her mind.

"That you had Molly up here with you all day. Of course she had been thinking of something altogether different than looking over files. Well, at least she was hoping. Hello Molly, please tell me you have eaten today." He saw no evidence of any kind of meal, besides the single plate by his old chair. He knew that Sherlock purposely didn't eat during a case, but he figured that Molly would have at least thought to eat something.

Molly blinked a couple of times, willing away the blush that rose up in her cheeks at the thought that kind, sweet Mrs Hudson was hoping they were doing….well…..something that involved a lot less clothing than the two of them were currently wearing.

"Um, I had breakfast, but nothing since. I hadn't even really realized how late it was getting." She looked back down at John's raised brow, embarrassed at what he implied with that single expression.

"We've been busy John, now what did you need? I seem to recall that you said you were too busy to come today." Sherlock flicked through another file with a little more force than needed. He didn't know why, but John's appearance annoyed him.

"I was, during the day. If you will remember I said I would be by after work. By the way, one of your kids handed this to me on my way in." John held out a crumpled bit of paper between his fingers. Sherlock marched forward and practically snatched the note from his hand. John just shrugged it off; it was Sherlock after all; and went over to Molly, handing her a bag in his other hand.

"I guess it is a good thing I brought takeout." He smiled at the blush covering Molly's face. He had seen her blush before, but it had always been accompanied by an almost sad look in her eyes. This time she actually looked happy, and it made him wonder.

"Thank you John." Looking into the bag at the takeout boxes, she could feel her stomach start to growl at the delightful smell that drifted up to her nose.

**"Oh GOD!"**

Both Molly and John jolted at the shout, their eyes going wide at the very agitated Sherlock as he crumpled the note and tossed it across the room.

"Sherlock!" John looked down at the ball of paper and back to his best friend. Sometimes he could be such a child.

"No one saw anything, did they?" Molly stood from the table and went to pick up the paper from the room, smooth it out and add it to the pile on the table. She had feared this result, feared that this is what it would be in the end.

"No one willing to talk at least. Either no one was around that day, or they are all too scared." The alley where Jessica and her son lived had been inhabited by four others, someone should have seen something.

"Do you really blame them? After seeing what she did to Jessica I would be afraid too." Molly pointed to the photo of Jessica's remains that still sat atop one of the files. If she had been the one to see that happen, she would have been afraid of that happening to her if she said anything. It was that horrifying.

"They shouldn't doubt my abilities." He would have been able to protect them…like he should have protected Jessica and Thomas. Feeling something heavy in his chest, Sherlock pressed a fist against his breastbone. He didn't like the feeling.

"They don't doubt them, or you, but fear that great sends even the most courageous running." Taking a step forward, Molly placed a hand over the one pressed to his chest, pulling his hand down to his side and keeping it there until Sherlock pulled away.

"Okay, so is anyone going to tell me what is going on?" John looked between his two friends, it all felt surreal. The conversation, the way that Molly acted and Sherlock reacted, and the other way around. Normally he was the one in that conversation, the one helping Sherlock through a case. It was strange to see someone else work with his friend.

Sherlock ignored John and went to pick up his violin, his bow running over the strings slowly. Molly just shook her head at the detective's melodramatics and went to grab two plates out of the cupboard.

"We were hoping that someone had seen the murderer either before or after she murdered Jessica." Setting the plates on the counter, Molly divided up the food between them, ignoring the inquisitive look John was throwing her way.

"Still no leads then?" John watched with a furrowed brow as Molly piled the two plates with food. Molly knew that Sherlock didn't eat while working a case, so he didn't understand why she bothered to fix him a plate.

"None, everything is strangely clean. There is nothing that stands out, generic and cheap blankets; the sleeping aid is the kind you can buy at any chemist's. The only things that are not new are the dolls that she leaves with them. They're all second hand, but none of the families have recognized them." Stuffing the empty boxes back in the bag, Molly set them aside in case of leftovers.

The violin music stopped as Sherlock once again took out his mobile, this time sending a text before stuffing it back in his pocket.

"Sherlock?" Walking out of the kitchen, plates in hand, Molly watched as Sherlock set his violin down on his desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. She had always loved when he did that, when his eyes sort of glazed over as he tried to work a puzzle out in his head.

"I doubt anyone thought to test the dolls. I'm having Lestrade send them to the lab in the morning." It was a strange request, but after seeing him find those two children with only a footprint to go by, neither of them said anything.

"I doubt there is much more that we can do tonight then, so why don't we eat?" Molly lifted the plates into the air a little and walked over to the chairs.

"Molly you know I…"

"You are going to eat, unless you want that biology lecture?" With both brows high along her forehead, Molly stared him down. She had done it before, and she would do it again. She was tired of him practically killing himself for a case, and as long as she worked with him he was going to start taking better care of himself.

"I had a bowl of that stew you made, isn't that sufficient?" Surely she wasn't going to make him eat every time that she worked with him?

"No, you are going to eat and when I leave you are going to sleep at least a couple of hours." Molly placed one of the plates of food beside Sherlock and sat down to eat herself.

John expected Sherlock to either ignore the plate or throw it across the room, instead, to John's surprise, he picked it up and sat down in his chair and started eating. He looked like a child that had been put upon, but he was actually eating.

"John, do shut your mouth. You look like a fish standing there." Sherlock refused to look at his friend, and instead sullenly stuffed a forkful of food in his mouth.

John snapped his jaw shut and just shook his head with a quiet laugh. It was all very, very surreal.

* * *

Molly had decided it was time to return home once she had finished eating. Sherlock of course got a bit whiny about it, but in the end just sat down and sulked as she left, John right on her heels. She refused to look over as John came up to her as she waited for her taxi. He had been sending her strange looks all evening, and it unnerved her.

"What is going on between you and Sherlock?" Ok, so he probably shouldn't have been so blunt with her, but he was used to dealing with Sherlock. He would have asked his friend, but he knew Sherlock would have denied everything. He was sure Molly would tell him the truth, or he hoped at least.

"What are you talking about? Nothing is going on." Still refusing to look at him, Molly shuffled her feet. She didn't understand what was going on herself, how could she explain what was happening to John? She knew something was different between them, but what she couldn't tell.

"I'm not stupid Molly, you got him to eat. I've never even been able to get him to eat during a case. Something has to be going on between you." He knew there had to be, what with the way they acted with one another, Molly getting him to eat, the looks that passed between the two of them. Watching them he had recalled the conversation he had had with Sherlock before the case started, and how his friend had been annoyed at his interference. Could he have been upset about something totally different than he originally thought?

"I promise you, nothing is going on." Molly knew that John wasn't going to drop it, so she was relieved when she saw her Taxi coming down the street.

"Molly…"

"Sorry John, I don't know what you want me to say, there is nothing going on. Now, I'm off home because I've got to do some actual work tomorrow. Goodnight." Molly threw him a smile as she slipped into the back of the cab and shut the door.

John watched Molly leave, wondering why he hadn't just shared the cab with her. He stood there for a few minutes before the door behind him opened. John turned around hoping that Sherlock wasn't about to scold him about interfering in his relationship that wasn't really a relationship again, but the man was just pulling on his coat.

"Lestrade called, they found another child."

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry it took me a while to get this out. I decided to do the Darcy Lewis Fluff Week on Tumblr and so all my other fics got put on the back burner. But that is over and I'm back now, and with not just more of this story, but also a couple of oneshots and I'm working on a few other Sherlolly fics that I will be posting later.

Next Chapter: Dolls tested, things pick up pace, Molly is sent over the edge, a slip of the tongue, Mycroft.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	8. He Thrusts His Fist Against The Posts

Chapter Seven: He Thrusts His Fist Against The Posts

* * *

Two weeks had passed since Molly had helped Sherlock go over the case files, and nothing had changed, at least in regards to actually solving the case. After returning to her flat, Molly had gotten a call in the early hours of the morning from Greg. Seeing his name pop up on the screen it hadn't taken her more than a second to guess what he was calling about. She had been proven right when he immediately informed her that another child had been found, and she could of course expect Sherlock at St. Bart's in the morning; along with the stuffed dolls.

He had been there even before she had made it into work the next day, snipping off bits of the faux fur from each of the dolls for sampling. She had popped into the lab in order to inform him of her presence, and then went straight to work on examining the body.

Molly hadn't been sure what to do with Sherlock when she had joined him in the lab later, only to find him tossing the dolls in the bin along with the test results. The dolls had seemed to be as much of a dead end as everything else. There were traces of dirt, hair, and various other substances, but nothing matching on a single one. They were obviously second hand, most likely purchased from a variety of places.

Sherlock seemed outraged by the very existence of the toys after that, and she despaired at what it could mean for his mental state. While Sherlock delighted in his cases, she had seen him grow despondent when he couldn't solve one. And that was never a good thing.

Though it was not just Sherlock she worried about, but her own emotional health as well. With each day she felt herself slipping, coming just that much closer in being unable to distance herself from the case.

Since the death of Jessica and her son, the murderer seemed to have picked up the pace. In those past two weeks five more children had been found, all from poor families or with addicted parents. It was with the second child that week Molly found the one thing that began to tear at her heart in a way nothing else had.

Signs of abuse had begun showing up, old faded scars, improperly mended bones, burns and bruises that had been on the child far too long and could only have come from before they were taken.

It was the fifth child, just brought in that morning, that finally sent Molly over the edge. She had seen evidence of physical abuse before, on both child and adult, but this kind was enough to send her straight to the loo where she promptly got sick. Her professionalism was crumbling before her very eyes, but she dared anyone to not get upset at what she had seen.

* * *

Sherlock scowled down at his mobile, irritated at what he was reading. Another child had been found, same as all the others, and had already been taken to Bart's for Molly. The murderer was stepping up her game, but Sherlock didn't know if it was because she thought she was safe or because she was still angered by Jessica.

He cringed as the image of the young woman flashed through his mind. He still could not process the feelings he had regarding her and her son's death, and he didn't really want to.

He clicked off the text and stuffed the phone in his pocket before gathering his coat and scarf. At some point she had to make a mistake, and Sherlock was going to catch her and put a stop to her once and for all.

* * *

The body had already been examined by the time that Sherlock arrived at Bart's, and it seemed that his pathologist was nowhere to be found. Her co-workers were of no help, the lot of them were unobservant and ignorant at best, and complete wastes of flesh at worst.

When he finally found her it was in the women's locker room, sitting on a bench with her head in her hands. He could see her shaking and he knew she must have been crying. He gave a little cough to alert her that he was there and waited at the doorway while she gathered herself. He was never sure how to deal with crying women, well crying anyone really, but it bothered him even more when it was one of the women in his life.

"I need to see the body." He took a couple of steps in the room once she had stopped shaking. Unsure what to do with his hands he placed them behind his back, his fingers idly tapping against one another.

"No, Sherlock, you don't." Though she knew he was aware that she had been crying, she refused to turn around. Her face would be all puffy, eyes bright red and swollen; she had never been one of those blessed women that still looked stunning while crying.

"Molly, I need to examine it, just like all the others. I NEED to see it." Taking a few more tentative steps towards her, Sherlock found himself standing right behind her.

"The paperwork has already gone through." Sitting up straight, she ignored the fact that he was behind her, and just wiped her eyes and nose on her lab coat. It wasn't elegant, but it would have to do since she didn't have anything else and Sherlock wouldn't think to offer her a tissue or anything.

"Molly, stop being stubborn. I want to see the body." Sherlock cringed when Molly wiped her face on her sleeve, but as John had once informed him, saying anything on such a matter would be rude. More so among friends.

"Oh, you really don't." She may have snapped when she answered, but Molly doubted anyone would blame her. She was used to this Sherlock, but this time around she wasn't about to give in.

"Molly?" She had never refused him like this before, and he had to admit to being confused.

"Look Sherlock, there was nothing new. He was killed by the same method, same sleep aid, same everything. There is no need to see the body." She wished he would just drop it. She knew that he was able to deduce things that others couldn't, but she doubted there was anything he could this time. She had been over the child, spending more time than she normally would on a body, hoping to find just one thing that could lead to the capture of that monster.

"If everything is the same, why won't you let me see…..oh….. It is not like we haven't seen this coming. Molly, Molly look at me." It was bound to happen, he was actually surprised they hadn't run across it before now. Not quite sure what he was doing, or how he would be received, he placed one hand on Molly's shoulder, his fingers curling over her collarbone and pressing down lightly.

Molly stood quickly from the bench, turning around but still refusing to look at Sherlock straight on. She knew he most likely deduced that she had gotten sick, but she didn't want to see the look on his face. The one of cold indifference mixed with disappointment at her weakness.

"You had to have known this would happen at some point, the other victims have gotten slowly worse. She was bound to find one that had been…" Not sure what to do with the hand that had been left floating in midair, he twirled it a bit, finding it hard to say himself. He wasn't heartless like everyone wanted to believe, the things humans could do did disgust him…it just also fascinated him to some degree as well.

"I don't care if I should have known or not, Sherlock, I wasn't prepared! I don't think I would have ever been prepared for that! People are sick, and…and…and monsters!" Molly held back a sob that threatened to burst forth, pressing her hand against her mouth. Her heart beat a little heavier at the sigh that came from Sherlock.

"Of course they're monsters. Did you think the world was a happy place, Molly? Surely you have seen some of mankind's darkest deeds. Murders, abuse of every kind, mutilations." Not liking the bench between them, Sherlock stepped over the low seat until he stood directly in front of her, his hand going to rest on her shoulder once more.

"So I have, but I have not desensitized myself to it. I am human, not a robot. I can't look at those things and not feel sick." She was suppose to be detached, but she hoped that she never got desensitized to what she had seen, hoped she never had the means to.

"I'm not a robot." Sherlock pulled his hand back from Molly's shoulder as though he had been burned, curling his hands behind his back into fists instead.

"I wasn't talking about you." Why did he always think the worst of himself? It hurt Molly when he did that, pulled himself away from her like he just had. Why did he automatically think when she spoke about uncaring people that she was talking about him? After all that time he had to know what she thought about him.

"Yes you were." Taking a step back, Sherlock was about to leave the locker room and just find the body himself when he was stopped by a small hand on his arm. He looked down at it, following the tiny fingers to the delicate wrist, all the way up the slim arm until he found his eyes meeting Molly's.

"No I wasn't. I know you are not; you're not as heartless as you like to appear to the world, and you have to be as bothered by the murders as I am. You have to, because I can't believe you could actually be that cold." Not caring about what he would do, Molly pressed herself up against his side as she pleaded with him with her eyes. She wanted him to tell her she was right, she needed to know that he believed it of himself.

"What would you have me do? To cry and wail at every child, every person murdered? Do you not realize that way leads only to madness?" A madness that he was beginning to worry about when it came to the woman at his side.

"Damn it Sherlock! I know you are not cold, could you, just once, show some emotion? Let someone see that you actually care that innocent children are being murdered?" By that point Molly was once again on the verge of tears, her fingers curling in the fabric of Sherlock's coat, pleading with him to understand that she needed to know that she wasn't the only one bothered by it all.

"I'm trying to find the murderer, am I not?" Sherlock normally tried not to loose his temper, but seeing the tears start to well in her eyes made him snap. Molly was stronger than this, he knew that for a fact, and it unsettled him to see her weak in any way. Though he wasn't sure if it was because he hated weakness, or because he couldn't do anything to help her.

"What would you feel if it was your child on that table? How would you handle that?" Molly shook her head, pulling away from the man while trying to hold back tears of hurt and anger.

"But it isn't, I don't even have children." It was a ridiculous thing to ask him, he thought. Surely he had shown his loyalty to those he loved, did she actually believe him to be that cold?

"But what if you did, what if you had a child and it was him on that table?" Molly turned from Sherlock, her eyes clenching shut at the dreams that had plagued her since she went undercover with him, of that little child with his curls and her nose.

Taking a couple of breaths to steady himself, Sherlock stepped forward and grab a hold of Molly's shoulders once again. He turned her around, giving a little shake until her eyes opened and focused on him.

"I would do what I had to, to find the one who murdered our child, just as I am now." He gave a final shake and just looked down into her wide eyes.

"Our child?" Molly blinked up at him, hardly able to believe she had just heard what she had. A moment later Sherlock let her go, taking several steps away from her.

"My child." Coughing into his hand, he barely noticed he had back himself up to the door until he felt it give way just a bit behind him.

"If you will excuse me, Lestrade promised he would have what he could on this newest murder at 221B soon." With a brief nod, he turned and practically fled from the room. Though he would never admit to doing such a thing.

Molly was left there with her mouth agape, still blinking and wondering if she had actually heard what she thought she had.

* * *

Sherlock slammed the door of 221B shut, his mind back at St. Bart's in the locker room. He had no idea why he said what he did or why he was letting it bother him as much as it was. But it _was_ bothering him, but what was even worse was what Molly's words had caused.

All the way home, and even now, his mind was filled with the image of a young child with his curls and Molly's eyes lying cold and still on one of Molly's tables. He tried to shake it, but it just kept at him, the image getting worse the more he tried not to think on it.

He could see that little child, looking so much like Molly, in the arms of that woman; her hand covering the child's mouth with a cloth.

Picking up a book from his desk, he tossed it across the room with a scream. He curled his hands in his hair, tugging at the roots in hope that the pain would rid him of the image, but all he could see was Molly standing beside him at a grave, tears streaming down her face. With another great shout, he gathered several books and hurled them, uncaring where they landed.

"I haven't seen you throw a tantrum like that since we were children." Stopping in the doorway, Mycroft watched unimpressed as his brother heaved from his outburst. When they were younger, Sherlock had always thrown fits, tossing his food about or breaking Father's things when he didn't get his way. Mycroft had hoped age would rid his brother of such childish things, but it seemed he had hoped for too much.

"Not now Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, practically hissing through his teeth. He did not have the patience to deal with his brother at the moment.

"As you just returned from St. Bart's I wonder what could have you in such a tiff? Surely you and the sweet Dr Hooper haven't had a row." He had seen the way his brother's relationship with the young pathologist had changed since his return. It wasn't that he had never seen Sherlock interested in a woman before, there was that whole sorry affair with Adler, even if it was far from what anyone would consider romantic. The thing was he had never seen his brother react the way he did with Miss Hooper. He cringed to think he might actually have a real romantic attachment forming.

"I said, not now." Sherlock forced his voice to remain low, shouting never did any good when it came to Mycroft.

"Sherlock." In order to rid himself of the images his last thought had created, Mycroft looked around the room, books and papers littered the floor and the table that had once stood beside John's chair had been knocked to the floor in his brother's tantrum.

"What do you want? Just tell me and leave." Sherlock needed something to banish the image of that child from his mind, something that would render him numb, at least for a while.

"I just came to inform you that due to the seriousness of this business, I have made a 'deal' in order to allow you to work more in the open." The Yard was reluctant to allow Sherlock to work with them again, and rightly so he thought. Mycroft knew that despite the fact that his brother was needed, he had a tendency to take that step one too far. He had always been that way, even as a child.

"A deal? Let me guess, you have promised to keep an eye on me? Make sure I don't do anything to make anyone nervous?" That was the way of it, wasn't it? Sherlock always had to be looked after, like a little child, and of course Mycroft was always his damnable babysitter.

"More like I promised to clean up after you should you prove to….well, let's just say I promised to take care of things." As he always had, but he thought it best not to bring up any of the past at the moment.

"And why would you care whether or not I am able to work openly on cases?" Sherlock laughed, a bitter sound that even made him cringe.

"I don't care, but since the papers got wind of the murders the public have gone into a panic. We need this thing dealt with quickly." Sites were already popping up online, speculating on the murders and spreading discontent among the people over the effectiveness of New Scotland Yard. It was best to nip it all in the bud before it had the chance to grow fully.

"And preferably quietly." Sherlock's raised brow spoke more than his words about how his brother worked. Behind the scenes, making everything look effortless and smooth, casting a veneer over the government so the general public could go on with their boring little lives.

"Preferably, but I will not hold my breath. Just stop this murderer, before we have a real problem on our hands." Mycroft dreaded to think about what mess would be left behind after all this was over.

"And Molly fears I may be coldhearted." When it came to the Holmes brothers, Sherlock could say with great certainty that Mycroft was the one with the cold touch.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. Now run along, I have a murderer to stop." Sherlock turned his back on his brother, walking over to his computer and randomly tapping a few keys, mostly just to annoy Mycroft than anything else.

Mycroft just sighed and left. He hadn't understood what Sherlock had meant, but he resented the fact that he would insinuate that he was coldhearted. He felt, but he also saw the world for what it was, a dark place where no one got their happy ending. He wasn't a pessimistic, he was just a realist.

Sherlock sighed once his brother had left, and went to sit down in his chair. Mycroft's visit had helped to settle him enough that he no longer wanted to tear his flat apart. Now all he could do was look into the hearth and try to ignore the cold, heavy lump he felt forming in his throat.

* * *

Molly had tried to finish her shift, but after Sherlock left she found herself unable to focus. She had left with the excuse of being sick, a story easily corroborated by a nurse that had been in the bathroom with her earlier, and headed home to think.

She now leaned against the tiles in her shower, the hot water hitting her stomach in a soothing pattern. Her heart still fluttered from that afternoon, hearing Sherlock say "our child" instead of "his." She really didn't know what to make of it, what it meant that he had said it.

She tried not to allow that little bud of hope to blossom in her chest, she might not know what to make of it, but she would be stupid to actually read anything into it. She may love him, but she knew he would never love her. She would be a fool to believe anything else.

* * *

Author's Note: So, this is the chapter I've been waiting to write since I started this. Mycroft is pretty fun to write, I hope I did him justice, he is just so fun a character. And I left the bit about the child pretty vague, but I'm sure everyone can guess what Molly found. It is a horrid subject to bring up, and I wouldn't have felt comfortable writing it in detail, and really no one needs or wants to read it anyway. The next chapter should be much longer as well, and a very important one.

Next Chapter: Sherlock is busy, John realizes something is going on, Sherlock won't talk about Molly, John is concerned, a lead, Undercover?, Molly is needed.

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	9. Then You Show Your Little Light

Chapter Eight: Then You Show Your Little Light

* * *

For the next two days Sherlock avoided St. Bart's completely, though it wasn't as though he admitted to it. Oh no, of course not, he was simply too busy with the case and there was no need to visit the hospital as there was no new body to examine. In truth he _was_ busy, what with his brother paving the way for him to work openly, but a couple of hours at the Yard did not fill the day.

John didn't know what exactly had happened between his two friends. All he knew was that Molly had called Mary two days ago in a panic, babbling off something on the other end of the phone, just loud enough that he could make out Sherlock's name and the word 'child' a few times. He didn't ask, but that was mostly because he knew neither Sherlock nor his wife would tell him, and he couldn't ask Molly because as far as she knew he had no idea that anything was wrong. Whatever it was between them, John hoped the two would work it out soon because Sherlock was driving him crazy.

Things had seemed much easier lately as Sherlock was just as apt to ask Molly to help on a case as he was him. He wasn't single anymore, he had a wife and a job now, he couldn't go off gallivanting at a moment's notice to only God knew where. Only now…well John couldn't help but feel he was in the middle of some strange lover's spat, what with the way his friends were acting.

Currently John was sitting in his old chair at 221B, sipping at his tea and watching as his odd friend paced back and forth across the floor. He wished Molly would just show up, for once John didn't actually know everything going on. Molly had been the one working on the case from the beginning, not him. Only every time John brought her up, Sherlock would make his _"really John, stop being stupid"_ face and start ranting on about the fact that he had to be missing something.

Just as John was about to call Molly in order to save his own sanity, Sherlock's phone went off. John held his breath, anymore the only reason it went off was when there was another murder; another dead child.

Sherlock frowned at his phone, clicked it off and stuffed it in his pocket before grabbing his coat and scarf.

"There's been another murder?" John pushed himself from his chair, grabbing his own coat from the arm on the way up.

"Obviously. You coming?" Sherlock straightened his scarf, keeping his eyes focused away from John the whole time. The other man night not be as observant as he was, as John had told him countless times himself, but he knew Sherlock enough to know when something was wrong. Normally he wouldn't have a problem with it, but Sherlock didn't really feel like talking to John about everything that had been happening. No, John would want to talk about feelings and sentiment. He just couldn't stomach it at the moment.

"Of course, but shouldn't Molly…" John sighed when Sherlock threw him another one of those looks, it was about as annoying as "The Face."

"She will see the body as soon as it is brought to Bart's. She does not need to see the crime scene." Sherlock tried to push back the memory of Molly just two days before; of how she had looked curled up in the locker room, her eyes red from crying. Sadly the more he pushed the memory away, the more focused it became in his mind. Molly was breaking, and it worried him.

"Sherlock…"

"I mean it John, leave her be for now." Refusing to allow John another word, Sherlock started down the stairs.

John stood there for a moment, unsure if he was reading his friend right. Before everything had happened hearing such a thing from Sherlock would have been a simple dismissal. Molly would see the body later, to do so now was unnecessary. Only John couldn't detect any amount of cool indifference in his voice; in fact he actually sounded more concerned than anything. And that bothered John, though he wasn't sure if it was Molly or Sherlock he worried about.

* * *

Though Sherlock had spent several hours at the Yard over the past two days, his presence at the crime scene was enough to cause most to pause for just a second. The reactions were varied, some looked on with awe at the man that had tricked the whole world into believing he was dead, while others looked at him with pure hate and disdain. Sherlock only rolled his eyes, ignoring the whispered comments as he continued on his way to Lestrade.

Finding him just at the doorway of the building, Sherlock stopped, giving a blank stare at the DI. John stepped up beside him, a feeling of unease already settling in his stomach. He knew what they would find once inside, he had read the reports. He had seen many things that would frighten the toughest of men while he had been at war, but he knew nothing would have prepared him for what he would see.

"Nothing seems to be any different." Lestrade looked Sherlock in the eyes uneasily, there was something different about him, a kind of coldness that had nothing to do with his intellect. It was strange for the normally animated detective; Sherlock should have been practically bouncing on the balls of his feet at finally gaining access to a crime scene. Instead he appeared somber, his jaw ticking as he held his mouth tightly together.

"Nothing ever does when you don't observe." Sherlock threw a sarcastic little smile at the man in front of him. It still annoyed him that people couldn't see what was right in front of them, but more so that they complained about it.

"If I remember correctly, Sherlock, you haven't found anything new since all this began." Lestrade felt a bit smug, he had to confess. Though he hated to see so many children killed, Lestrade would admit that it felt nice to see the arrogant detective stumped. He just wished it was on a case that didn't have such devastating consequences.

"And had I been able to actually observe the crime scene this may have been solved by now." The smile turned quickly into a disgusted sneer. It baffled the mind that knowing what he could do, others didn't immediately seek his counsel.

"Oh would you two just shut up! We don't have time for this, we've a child murderer to catch." Though he did find that he missed the adventure, this was one thing he could have lived without; playing Mother to two overgrown five year olds.

Sherlock took a step back from Lestrade and Looked down at John's exasperated face. Again the image of Molly in the locker room entered his mind, and it sobered him even more.

"Where's the body?"

"Inside, nothing has been moved." It felt like the old days, leading the other two men to the room where the child had been found. Sometimes Greg wondered if they would ever get back to that time; back to when things seemed just to fit.

Pausing in the doorway, three pairs of eyes went straight to the small child laid out perfectly on the ground. Sherlock actually seemed to falter for a moment, but quickly gathered himself; cocked his head and moved to kneel over to the body.

John couldn't remove his eyes, though he dearly wished to. The little girl looked like she was simply sleeping, and if it weren't for the unnatural blueness to her skin he would never have thought otherwise.

The loud clap of Sherlock's hands brought both John and Greg out of the grim trance they appeared to be in. Their eyes moved from the child and to the inappropriately grinning detective.

"It seems our murderer has finally made a mistake." Sherlock grinned widely, they all made a mistake eventually. The longer they got away with the crime, the more negligent they became. They felt safe, they were smarter than anyone else, no one could touch them. That was how mistakes were made, much like the one in front of him.

"What? What mistake?" Lestrade pushed his way into the room, his eyes searching everywhere in hopes to see what Sherlock was talking about. Sadly he couldn't pick up on anything new.

"The blanket, look at it, this one is different than the rest. All the others were brand new, this one has been used. It is a different style as well, like the blankets used in hospitals." A simple mistake, but one that didn't surprise Sherlock in the least that it had been overlooked.

"Alright, but how does that help us?" Lestrade went over in his head everything that Sherlock might say; fiber testing, analysis, the smell of the bloody thing. At that point he didn't care, as long as it caught the one doing this.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but reached out and carefully un-tucked a corner of the blanket. A slightly smug smile graced his lips as he turned it over.

"This one wasn't planned out, she hadn't had anything prepared. Look around, the room is a mess, she had been in a hurry." There was more milk spilled, as though she had mixed it there in a hurry. A few spots of the sleeping aid, most likely dripped from the bottle as she poured. The dust around the room had been kicked up, tables and chairs knocked over. How Lestrade could say everything looked the same, Sherlock didn't know.

"Sherlock?"

"The blanket, Lestrade, the blanket. Look at it."

Kneeling down beside the child, John and Lestrade looked down at the where Sherlock had been pointing. There, on the corner of the blanket, had been printed a name.

"Johnston Haven?" John stood straight, though his eyes remained on the blanket. He almost feared believing that they had found an actually lead, as though the moment he did it would turn out to be false.

"I know that place, it's a shelter for battered and abused women and children, even a few homeless show up every now and then. They offer a safe place for women and children; food, clothing, even counseling." Unfortunately the reason Lestrade knew of the place was because of the problems the shelter had encountered with vandalism and threats.

"Why is the child wrapped in a blanket from a battered women's shelter?" John had a pretty good idea, but he refused to believe it.

"What better place?" Standing, Sherlock looked at his friend. John wasn't blind like so many others, he doubted he hadn't already made the connection.

"You can't mean that the murderer works there? They check all their employees, surely." John's eyes slid up to the girl's face. He could taste bile in the back of his throat, to think that that child had been betrayed by the very people that were meant to protect her.

"Johnston is run by volunteers and donations. Most of the people that work there volunteer their time, many of them victims themselves once." From what Lestrade knew, the Haven couldn't afford to turn away volunteers. It was plausible that they would forgo any background check.

"A woman with a dark past, abused and hurt, she volunteers at a shelter for women just like her. Only she can't take it, seeing all those children coming in, broken and bruised. I was right, she is trying to protect them."

"By killing them? That is a little farfetched, even for you." Lestrade might have sounded indignant, but he was sure no one would care. It was a ludicrous idea….surely….

"You have heard of cases where mothers willingly kill their children to keep them from a worse fate. Is it really hard to believe that she thinks she is helping, saving these children from the abuses of the world?" Sherlock had seen it before; parents so poor they killed their children so they wouldn't have to suffer starvation, children killed by a parent to protect them from torture.

"I don't know what to believe." Pressing a hand to his forehead, Lestrade felt himself grow tired. The longer he worked for the Yard, the more he hated people. People were idiots, monsters, and revolting little pieces of shit. The things they would do for money, sex, or even just because they became bored. Sometimes he dreamt of just quitting and moving to some deserted island where he wouldn't have to deal with the grotesque stupidity of humanity.

"Just believe me." Taking one last look at the child on the ground, his face contorting in a mixture of anger and worry, Sherlock turned swiftly and practically ran from the room. He wouldn't admit to it, but he had been having trouble since he laid eyes on the body. He had been taken aback when he opened the door to find the five year old girl laying on the ground; her dark curly hair spread around her like a halo, her button nose resting above full lips. He had never been more thankful that Molly wasn't with him; he was sure she would see what he did.

The other two men chased after Sherlock, both wondering and worrying about that last look on his face.

"Wait, where are you going?" Greg watched on helpless as Sherlock quickly moved out of the house and past the police tape.

"To follow up on the lead. John?" A hundred thoughts were running through his mind, one of the foremost was Molly. He wanted to tell Lestrade to make sure someone else worked on the girl, but in the end he told himself that Molly was a big girl and could deal with it. He just hoped he was right.

John shrugged his shoulders at the DI, there really wasn't anything else he could do. It wasn't like Lestrade didn't know what Sherlock was like. After catching the roll of Greg's eyes, John followed his friend.

"So, we're going to visit Johnston?" John tried to catch Sherlock's eyes, hoping to figure out what was bothering his friend. Of course Sherlock was determined, and just picked up his pace.

"Don't state the obvious John. Come on, we have a few items to pick up first."

* * *

Standing outside of Johnston Haven, John felt a moment of hesitation. He knew the world was filled with horrible people, that men, women and children were hurt and went through horrendous things every day. He had seen much of it, things that would send weaker men screaming. But for a moment he wasn't sure he could take a step into that building; to look at all those faces and know that once they left there they would once again be in danger. It was the thought that inside that building could be a dragon pretending to be a knight that got his feet moving.

"How are you expecting to find the murderer? I doubt she is going to confess her crimes just because you ask her." It always amazed him how his friend's mind worked. He was sure he would get the information, he did most of the time, but he never could figure out how his plans were going to work before they were put into action. Actually he rarely had been able to figure it out after the damn thing was executed either.

"I'm not looking for her, she might not even work here. Right now we need to prove that all the children murdered have, at one point, been here." It could be a false lead, he knew that. The blanket could've been purchased secondhand, to send them in the wrong direction, but Sherlock didn't think their murderer was that clever.

"And we are going to do that by play acting as a couple of journalists? How is that going to work exactly? Our faces have been plastered all over the papers." Though there had been a few people that had not recognized them, overall the both of them had trouble just walking down to the local pub without being stopped.

"People only see what they want to see, John." Sherlock leaned over to observe himself in one of the ground to roof windows. He smiled and cocked his cap just slightly, making sure none of his curls had fallen forward.

"You keep saying that, but I'm not sure that applies anymore." John adjusted the uncomfortable coat on his shoulders. Sometimes he really wondered at his friend, Sherlock should've been an actor not a detective.

"Even the most notable person in the world can hide in plain sight."

"Great, I'm looking forward to seeing you pull that magic trick."

"Shut up and follow my lead."

Sherlock opened the doors with a flourish, making it hard for John not to roll his eyes, and the two of them entered the shelter. More than one face looked up at them, and John felt his stomach clench. How could there still be this many abused nowadays? They were supposed to be advanced, but it looked as though the more 'enlightened' they were, the more monstrous humanity became.

Sherlock smiled at one of the volunteers, a young woman with long red hair, and made his way confidently to her.

"Hello, might I inquire where I could talk to someone in charge?" Stopping in front of the woman, Sherlock gave the most innocent face he could. He had been told by John that no one would ever believe it, but when the woman practically beamed up at him he gave a mental smug smile to his friend.

"Of course, may I ask what your business is here?"

"I'm William Hooper, my partner and I would like to conduct an interview…" Sherlock trailed off as he watched the woman's face fall and turn hard. He was about to backtrack when she nodded her head once and turned away.

"Right, this way please."

Sherlock and John followed the young woman as she directed them to a back room with a gold plaque on the door reading: "Mrs Johnston." The both of them watched on with raised brows as she opened the door harshly and leaned in.

"Miranda, sorry to bother you, but there are two men here to see you."

"Send them in, Diana." The woman, Diana, nodded and leaned back out of the room. She gave both John and Sherlock a hard look as they passed by her, and shut the door a little harsher than strictly necessary.

Looking back at the door and then at each other, they both shrugged their shoulders before turning to the woman standing behind the desk.

Mrs Johnston was a middle aged woman, tall, but not so tall that she towered much over John. She looked every inch the business woman; blonde hair pulled back into a flawless French twist, her makeup neutral, and dressed in a fine blue dress suit. She was pretty, but it did not take Sherlock to see the underlining sadness on her face. There was a reason she ran the Haven, and it was not because of a large heart.

"May I help you?" Miranda looked both men up and down, taking in everything from their attire to the small notepad in the shorter one's hand. There was something familiar about them, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

"Yes, Mrs Johnston, my colleague and I are writing an article on various shelters around London, and we were wondering if we could have a few words with you." Sherlock gave her the same winning smile and innocent look he had given Diana, unfortunately it seemed to have the same effect on her as she frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.

"If you are out to prove that shelters such as the Haven are unneeded, and that all these women and children that come to me for help are overreacting or lying, I suggest that you leave immediately. I will not be part of your misogynistic campaign." Miranda started tapping her foot, hoping it would distract her from the urge to march forward to use that bloody notepad to smack some sense into them. She had dealt with their kind before, and she refused to put up with that nonsense again.

"We are not out to prove any such thing." Sherlock's face fell, he was unused to dealing with people that reacted this way with him. Or well, when he was acting at least.

"I've heard that one before. So what, I give you an interview, allow you to talk to a few of the women here, and then wake up in a couple of days to find you've completely twisted my words around and made those poor women out there look like a bunch of lying harpies out to stick it to men?" Miranda couldn't count how many times she had to deal with such behavior, not just from enraged husbands and boyfriends, but from the press and the general public as well. It sickened her.

"No, I…."

John sighed, Sherlock was a smart man, but sometimes he just didn't do well out in public. Sherlock couldn't understand why Mrs Johnston was angry, but that was because it wouldn't have once popped into his head to think that the women there deserved the abuse they suffered. In some ways John thought Sherlock was so very innocent.

Knowing that all his friend was accomplishing was angering the woman, John grabbed a stack of photos from his bag and set them on Mrs Johnston's desk between them.

"The truth is Mrs Johnston, we are not from the paper at all. I'm Dr John Watson and this awkward man is Sherlock Holmes. We are actually here because we are investigating the deaths of all those children."

Everyone in the room was silent as Miranda looked down towards the photos before really taking the time to look at the men in front of her. She blinked as she took in the tall man with the curls and very distinctive cheekbones and lips. She sighed and ran a hand along the back of her neck.

"I thought you looked familiar, you look different without the hat." It was a weak excuse, but it was all she would give. Diana was right, she was too wound up, she should have recognized them the moment they entered the room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he turned to John and crossed his arms over his chest. John knew he was sulking, both because of his plan failing as well as the hat comment, he just hoped his friend held his tongue for a while.

"So, why would you think I know anything about the murders? We are a shelter dedicated to providing a safe place for women and children." Tired, Miranda pulled out her chair and sat down after motioning to the other chairs in the room.

"Of course you don't know anything." Sherlock curled himself down into the chair indicated to him, suddenly feeling like a giant with how small the thing actually was. John of course fit perfectly, apparently there were advantages to being short.

"Sherlock."

"What, it is obvious, of course I never thought she did. I didn't come in here to accuse anyone." Why did everyone always think the worst of him? Well everyone but Molly, but then again she saw the good in everyone.

"Then why did you come in here?" Even after establishing their true identity, Miranda wasn't sure about trusting them.

"We need to know, if you are able, if any of those children have visited the Haven." John pointed to the pictures on the desk, his demeanor as relaxed and calm as possible considering.

The room was silent once again as Mrs Johnston reached over and gathered the photos. She hadn't known what to expect, maybe that she wouldn't recognize any of them, but with each new picture her face grew darker and darker. Finally she handed them to John and sat back in her chair, fingers steepled much like Sherlock, under her chin.

"Though I do not personally meet every person that walks through the Haven's doors, I try my best to talk to as many of them as I can. I can tell you that most of those children I have talked to or at least seen, but as I said I can not always be here and many come and go before I am able to see them. The others may have been here, but you would have to ask the other volunteers to be sure." Miranda felt her stomach roll as she thought over the faces in those pictures. Of the ones that she had talked to, she remembered them in great detail. She knew their problems, from them or the family member they came in with. One of the children she remembered helping to bandage a cut on their knee, and the kiss on the cheek she had received after. It bothered her greatly to think they had been murdered.

"Thank you." John slipped the photos back into the bag, his eyes half on Sherlock as his friend stood from his chair with a grace that he had seen in only one other person; Mycroft.

"There are many more there than the press has released." Standing herself, Miranda stepped from behind her desk. She was just barely holding in the tears that wanted to fall.

"And more will follow unless I am able to catch this murderer." Sherlock kept his voice soft, but there was no mistaking the anger behind his words.

"Look, I know I did not make the best first impression, and I'm sorry. You have to understand, I am in charge of these people, I'm trying to help them, but it is hard when so many want to shut us down. Even today people still want to turn a blind eye, or even actually believe that these people are lying. I had one journalist come in here and call me a home wrecker, tell me that the women I was sheltering deserved everything they got.

"I'm not a hard woman, I just want to protect these people." And she would do it at all costs. Someone had to stand up , and she knew that she had the means to do it, so by God she would.

"I never said you were anything but." Sherlock gave a genuine smile, though only a small one.

"Good, just do me a favor? Catch this monster." Miranda stepped forward and extended her hand, though after a moment dropped it when she realized he wasn't going to take it.

"Um, yes…well thank you for your help. Come on John, we've got work to do." Looking down once more at Mrs Johnston, Sherlock gave a tight smile and turned and left without another word.

John sighed and reached out to take the woman's hand in a handshake.

"Please don't mind him, he's a genius, but he's not very good in public." John laughed, it was a bit of an understatement, but he really didn't have time to fully explain his friend's idiosyncrasies.

"Of course." Miranda slipped her hand behind her back once Dr Watson had let go, and just stood there and watched as he ran off to join his friend. She hoped that Mr Holmes was as good as everyone claimed, and that he caught whoever was killing those children.

* * *

"Why did you deviate from the plan?" Sherlock stood still, refusing to look John in the eye as he waited for a taxi to drive by. Maybe he was sulking, just a little bit, but he wasn't used to having his plans shot down like that.

"Because Sherlock, she was really close to throwing us out. She's had a bad experience with the press, she wouldn't have helped us for fear of what we would write."

"She would have revealed something in the end." He would never admit that he sounded childish, but he had been sure it would work.

"Maybe, but this way she did it willingly and we finished faster."

Sherlock didn't respond, just turned and walked away. John followed, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes blank as he worked through something.

His plan to gather information may not have worked, but Sherlock knew that a direct approach would not work when it came to catching their murderer. He needed a plan, one that would catch the woman in the act. As he walked he thought through various scenarios, dismissing each as they popped up. There was only one that kept returning, and it was one he wasn't sure he wanted to put into motion. Finally after a while Sherlock stopped and turned to John.

"There is nothing more that can be done tonight." He said nothing more, just hailed an oncoming taxi and took off.

John just stood there for a moment, once again worried for his friend. He was sure he had figured out something, but whatever it was bothered him. What really worried John though, was that it bothered him enough that he didn't brag about what a brilliant plan he had concocted. The last time he did that, Sherlock had thrown himself off of St. Bart's and pretended to be dead for two years.

* * *

Sherlock looked up at the building in front of him. He had been reluctant to speak with Molly since what happened in the locker room two days ago. He couldn't process his feelings towards the woman, and he feared that trying to would get in the way of solving the case. But now he needed her help, he always seemed to need her help.

Normally he had no trouble in involving his friends in his plans, but this time he was nervous. Not because he didn't think she could do it, but because he wasn't sure he wanted her too.

Realizing that he had no other choice, he made his way to Molly's flat, knocking on the door before he could change his mind.

Molly answered within minutes, her eyes going wide as she took in the man in her doorway. She hadn't seen him since he practically ran from her at the hospital, and she had spent the past couple of days fretting over why that was.

Deciding not to think on it, Molly stood back and invited him in.

"If this is about the latest body, it was the same as last time, only much worse when it came to….well…" Molly swallowed thickly as she tried to push away the memory of the little girl. She had been having problems before, but when she had looked down at that sweet face surrounded by dark curls Molly just lost it. She had cried, but in the end she had forced herself to do her job. Sure the girl had a lot of similarities to both Sherlock and her, but when you really took the time to look at her you could make out all the differences as well.

"I already looked over the body at the scene. I've found a lead." Sherlock felt his stomach clench at the redness of Molly's eyes; she had been crying. He found himself with the strange urge to gather her up in his arms, but he ignored it and focused on the case instead.

"Oh, oh that is good. Um, so um…" Molly stood there, playing with the ends of her hair, unsure what to say.

"I need your help again." Sherlock took a step forward against his better judgment, one hand reaching out to untangle Molly's fingers from her hair. If he held onto her hand just a little too long, neither of them noticed.

"Alright, what do you need?" Standing up straighter, Molly looked him in the eyes for the first time that night. She knew he would never need to explain anything, all he ever had to do was ask and she would be there.

"It could be dangerous." Slipping a single finger between one of hers, Sherlock realized that he still had her hand and dropped it.

"Sherlock, you know I would do anything for you already, so just out with it." She could still feel the heat of his hand on hers, the tickle of that single finger pushing between her index and middle digits. She wanted to reach out and take his hand again, but was afraid of scaring him off. Things had changed so much between them, but she doubted it was enough to warrant actual hand holding.

"The murderer made a mistake, she used a blanket from the Johnston Haven to wrap the child. The murderer is most likely one of the volunteers, but the problem is which one? We have to try and rule out the innocents from the actual killer." Taking a step back, he tried to distance himself enough to think. It wasn't working, but he liked the illusion of control.

"Got it, so how can I help?" It was horrid to think that the murderer was actually a volunteer at a shelter meant to protect, but it didn't surprise Molly really. Mostly after everything she had seen the past few weeks.

"I have a plan to flush out the murderer, but I need you for it." He wished there was another way, one that didn't involve Molly, but no other solution wanted to present itself.

"So you've said. Why are you hedging, you never hedge?" Hedging meant something serious in Sherlock's world. Molly hated to think about the only other time he had hedged to ask her something.

"Because it will put you directly into danger." Deciding that his illusion of control was a bloody nuisance as it wasn't actually working, he told it to bugger off and took a step closer to Molly, and then another until he stood right in front of her. He placed both hands on her shoulders and looked right down into her red-rimed eyes.

"Is there a good chance this will help bring in that monster?" Turning her face upwards, Molly made sure he could read everything on her face, she wanted no misunderstandings between them.

"Yes."

"Then I'll do it."

"Molly…" Sherlock's hands slipped down until he held her just above her elbows, his fingers curling around and holding onto her just tightly enough he knew the flesh beneath would be pale white from lack of blood.

"No Sherlock, children are being murdered and if I can put a stop to it, even at my own safety, then I will do it. Just tell me what I need to do." This was beyond her now, beyond Sherlock and everyone else involved. She felt a sort of obligation to avenge the children she had worked on, somehow make things right and save others from the same fate. Because of that she would risk dying to put a stop to the murders. She couldn't live with herself any other way.

Sherlock looked at Molly fully then, a strange feeling in his chest growing the longer he looked. He had never given her the credit she deserved, or the respect. The fact was she was one of the strongest people he knew. She definitely had the kindest heart he had ever encountered. Then again he supposed she had to have, loving a man like himself.

Slipping his hands from her arms, Sherlock shook off the worry he felt. Yes she would be in danger, but he would also make sure that no harm would actually come to her.

"Sit down Molly, we've got a lot to discuss."

* * *

Author's Note: As I said, important chapter. Now this story is almost done, I have three more chapters after this. But once this is done I will be doing another Sherlolly story, this one inspired by The Great Mouse Detective. I'm in the middle of plotting it out and hope to have it out not long after this story is finished.

_**Now Really Important Note: If you are in an abusive relationship, whether it be a wife/husband/boy-girl-friend/parent/sibling/friend/family member/or anyone at all. Don't stay silent, let people know, take the power away from them and find the help you need to get away from that situation. Know, it is not your fault and you DON'T deserve anything they are doing to you. YOU DON'T! Please speak out, because you are WORTH EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD!**_

_**I had an aunt that when I was a child was in an abusive relationship. Her husband controlled her, her children and the children they had together. Though they were together for many years, she finally spoke out and was able to get away from him. In the end she ended up remarrying and spent her last years with a man that loved her and treated her like a princess.**_

_**Just know that you are important and worth everything, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.**_

Next Chapter: Sherlock and Molly set their plan into action.

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	10. Along Came A Spider

Chapter Nine: Along Came A Spider

* * *

John watched silently as Sherlock once again paced the floor of 221B. When they left the Haven two days ago, John had known his friend had figured out some sort of plan. It had worried him of course; Sherlock being so silent and secretive on the subject. He felt justified in feeling such a way, as the only other time he had remained closed lipped was before the Fall. Still, John hadn't thought he would actually come up with something this asinine.

"I don't like it, she could get hurt." And that was the thing that really bothered John, it wasn't his own life that Sherlock was endangering, it was Molly's.

"I know that John." Sherlock pushed off of the mantelpiece where he had momentarily leaned against. He had been through every scenario he could think of; tried to think of other ways to find the murderer. This was the only one that could possibly speed everything up and save another child from death.

"Then why are you making her do this?" He had known that his friend could be cold at times, but John never thought that he would be so uncaring and reckless with someone else's life.

"I'm not making her do anything, I asked and she agreed to it." Well, she pretty much agreed to it before he actually asked, as she always did, but that was neither here nor there, and Sherlock didn't think it wise to mention.

"Sherlock, I know you can _not_ be that stupid. You know that woman is in love with you, she would take a bullet for you if you asked it of her." John would admit that bothered him, scared him even. John would gladly die to save Sherlock, he would, but it unnerved him when it came to Molly. Maybe it was because with his friendship with Sherlock, John knew where he stood, but he wasn't really sure Molly did.

"I know! I tried to tell her she didn't have to do it, but she insisted." Several times throughout the night he had mentioned to her that they could find another way, but Molly refused to hear it. Sherlock was both proud and bothered by this.

"Then you didn't try hard enough!" John knew he was yelling, but he thought it was better than crossing the room and beating the ever living shit out of his friend, because that was what he really wanted to do.

"Stop it, both of you. I'm not doing this because of any feelings I have for Sherlock. I'm doing this because right now it is the best chance we have at catching this woman, and no one can convince me otherwise."

Both men turned to look at Molly as she stepped out of Sherlock's room, and they knew they would be lying if they said that their breath did not catch at the sight of the normally sweet, happy looking woman.

Molly stepped into the middle of the room wearing a pair of threadbare trousers and jumper, her hair unbound in wild tangles around her face, and not even the hint of lipstick or eye-shadow. But what made the three men sick were the large purple bruises that bloomed across her face, neck and arms.

Sherlock felt his hands clench at the sight of Molly, it didn't matter that the bruises and split lip were fake, it actually hurt to see Molly in such a way. He had felt that anger before, when Mrs Hudson had been attacked and when Moriarty had threatened his friends. He felt it once again, only this time there was no one to blame, no one to hurt because it was all make-believe.

"Molly, you don't have to do this, we can figure out another way. Hire an actress or something." Anything, Sherlock thought, anything but this. He had felt fear over John's safety before, when they worked a case, but it had never made him actually sick to his stomach before.

"I'm flattered that you care, but I'll be fine, I want to do this. Mycroft said he would be watching, if anything goes wrong he will get me out of there." She would admit to being frightened out of her mind. She had dreamed of going undercover with Sherlock before, going on grand adventures and solving mysteries, but now that she actually stood there ready and willing…well she finally realized just how out of their minds Sherlock and John must be. To actually want to do this, to crave it; both of them were insane.

"Molly…" Taking a step towards her, Sherlock allowed his worry to show; though only for a moment. He lifted a hand to touch the large blotch of purple on her cheek, but dropped his arm when Molly took a step back.

"No Sherlock, I'm doing this." Molly feared if she allowed Sherlock to touch her when he looked like that, that she would loose her nerve. She was determined, this woman needed to be stopped and she would do what needed to be done in order to catch her.

Nodding, Sherlock a handed her an old beat up bag. Molly reached out to take it, gasping slightly as Sherlock turned his hand and clasped her own in his. His fingers tightened around hers securely, refusing to allow her to pull back.

John watched all this from a few steps away, wondering if he had somehow fallen asleep and was dreaming. Molly going undercover, Sherlock showing emotion other than elation at a new murder to solve. It was all very surreal. He would have said something further on Molly's involvement, but before he could open his mouth the woman in question looked him straight in the eyes. The look she sent him stopped him in his tracks. Maybe she was doing all this for Sherlock, but he could see real sadness behind those eyes.

Giving a nod of his own, John left the two back in the flat as he went to wait outside. Mycroft would not be the only one with men on standby. John and Sherlock would be waiting with Greg several blocks away, waiting for a signal from one of Sherlock's homeless network that Molly needed help.

Back in the flat, Sherlock finally released Molly's hand, his fingers seeming to hold on to the last second as he pulled away. He would have once ridiculed himself over the obvious display of sentimentality, but he was finding that he had changed from the man he had been all those years ago. He had friends now, he openly showed them affection; of a sort at least.

Molly pulled her arm in, tucking the strap of the bag over her head and across her shoulder. She swallowed as she looked up at the man in front of her, she had never seen him look at her that way. It unnerved her.

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to force something past his lips. A thank you, a be safe, something, anything. Instead he just reached into his pocket and retrieved a mobile that he had purchased earlier.

"Take this and keep it close. Text me if you feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable." He stuck out his hand, the mobile held between thumb and forefinger.

"Sherlock, really…" Molly looked between him and the phone, her hands still clinging to the strap of the bag.

"Just do it." He held his hand out further, never taking his eyes off her face. He would stuff the thing in her bag himself if he had to.

With a sigh Molly took the phone and slipped it into the cup of her bra, giving it a pat and looking up at Sherlock. She gave him a slight smile, one he didn't return.

"I'll be fine, I know you don't get along with your brother, but I know you trust him with things like this. I'm not scared or worried and you shouldn't be either." She was lying of course, and she knew that Sherlock knew it too, but she refused to be anything but brave.

"I didn't say I was." What was it about the woman in front of him? She could disarm him unlike any other he had met, see past all his masks, all his lies. Not even John could do that.

"That's the funny thing about you Sherlock, you say more when you actually keep your mouth shut. Now come on, before I lose my nerve."

* * *

Molly smiled up at the older woman that had brought her a cup tea. She had been nothing but kind to her since she entered the Haven, bringing her in and helping her find an empty bed to rest on. She had doted on Molly, making sure she had everything she needed; a warm blanket, tea, food, and if she wished, someone to talk to. She was the typical motherly type, and Molly hoped to God that she wasn't the one that they were looking for.

"There you go Dear, that should warm you up. I've got a few chores to do, but if you need anything, just ask for Mattie." Mattie smiled widely at the small woman she had been helping, the poor dear looked far worse for wear and she wished she would take her up on the offer of a talk.

"Thank you, you are very kind." Molly took a small sip of her tea, careful not to burn her tongue on it.

"Think nothing of it, just get some rest."

Molly watched from behind her cup as the woman left. So far she hadn't seen anyone that she thought fit the bill of a murderer. Then again Molly knew that the woman doing all of the this wouldn't be some raging maniac with cruel eyes, she would look like everyone else. That was the problem, she was looking for a wolf in sheep's clothing, and there were far too many sheep around. Shaking off those thoughts, and anything else that would distract her, she focused instead on drinking her tea and acting appropriately.

The night before, while they had been working out the details of their plan, Sherlock had drilled her on how to act. She had been worried about getting it wrong, but apparently she had been doing something right as Mattie had rushed to her aid just moments after she entered the building. And it seemed Mattie wasn't the only one she had convinced, for when she had looked up momentarily from her cup several minutes later she noticed someone heading straight for her.

"There is no need to be scared here, you are safe."

Molly looked up at the woman that had just sat down on the bed beside her. She looked to be about thirty-five years old, she could have possibly been younger, but Molly figured that it would have only been by a year or two. She was a very plain woman, not ugly, just rather forgettable; short of stature, mousey hair, little nose, and rather dull grey eyes.

"I know, it is just….." Molly waved a hand about in front of her, giving the woman a small, nervous smile.

"I understand, no need to explain. I'm Ashley Elsberry by the way." Ashley held out a hand, the kind smile still on her face.

"Molly Sargent." Molly took the offered hand, giving a brief shake before pulling back just as quickly, rewrapping her hand around her cup of rapidly cooling tea.

"Hello Molly. If you don't mind my asking, what happened?" Ashley indicated the bruises covering Molly's face and arms.

The bruises looked horrendous, and Molly had fretted that she had overdone it just a bit. She had done a few plays when she had been a child, and makeup had always been one of her favorite bits.

"It's just…well Steve got a little angry." Molly reached up a hand and gave a phantom pass over one of the nastiest looking bruises.

"And hit you?"

"It wasn't his fault, I deserved it. I had forgotten the roast in the oven and it got a bit too dry. Steve can't stand dry roast." With a self-deprecating smile, Molly tipped her cup to his lips. She made a show of pulling back when the cool liquid touched her 'split lip.'

"Never say that it was your fault, there is no reason in the world that could give any man the right to hit you." Ashley pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, handing it to the poor woman beside her. She had seen far to many women like her, and it angered her that she would see even more before her life was through.

"It's alright, he didn't really mean it, he just gets really angry when he drinks. Once he sobers he will apologize, he always does. He was just upset because he had a bad day at work, that is all." Molly gently dabbed at her lips, careful not to remove any of her 'wounds.'

"It is never alright. Stop making excuses for him, and leave." Though what Molly said next didn't surprise her, it still angered her.

"He would be so angry with me." Molly bit her lip and looked down into her now empty cup.

"That is why we are here, all of us are here to help you." Ashley set her hand on one of Molly's and gave a soft squeeze and a smile.

Molly hated deceiving this woman, she was so sweet, but they had to find the killer before she took the life of another child. And so she set about playing her part, and for a while the two spoke quietly on Molly's bed in the corner, talking about everything from favorite color to most hated movie. There had been no sign of anything untoward, at least that she could see, but Molly needed to continue forward with the plan. Maybe Ashley would be able to lead them to the murderer.

It had been a good two hours since Ashley had sat down beside her, and Molly thought now was as good a time as any, and placed a hand on her stomach, bending over a little while she made a bit of a moaning noise.

"Molly, is everything alright?" Ashley laid a gentle hand on Molly's back, rubbing small, comforting circles as she leaned down to look into the other woman's face.

"Yes, I just don't think the tea is settling well. Ever since I got pregnant I've had trouble eating certain things. I'll be happy when the morning sickness is finished." In an instant the air around them changed. Molly could see a hardness rush over Ashley's eyes. The woman stiffened momentarily before placing her free hand on Molly's belly. She tried not to squirm, but the feeling of the other woman's hand on her made her feel sick. There was something wrong with the way she did it.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure your child is safe. You just sit here Molly, and I'll get you something for your stomach. It worked wonders when I was pregnant." Ashley stood, grabbed the cup from Molly's hand and left all before the woman could respond.

Molly shook herself, and the strange feeling she had crawling up her spine. There was something bothersome about the way Ashley had reacted when she had admitted to being pregnant. She figured it could all boil down to her worry for a pregnant woman with an abusive husband, but there was something almost possessive in her touch to her belly.

It was a few minutes later that Ashley returned, a cup of juice in her hands.

"There, drink this now. It will help calm your nerves and your stomach." Ashley pressed the glass into Molly's hand and then to her lips, holding on as Molly took several drinks.

Molly almost gagged at the bitter juice. She wanted to pull back, but Ashley just kept pushing the glass to her lips. She thought had she actually been pregnant the stuff would have made her even more sick than anything.

She licked her lips once the glass was removed, and Molly realized there was something very familiar about the bitterness, yet she was unable to place it, mostly as she began to feel dizzy.

Molly had never one to live by the old adage of what could go wrong, will. She had always been a bit of an optimistic, she had be to in order to love Sherlock Holmes. Still, she was beginning to understand the pessimistic side of humanity a bit better, because as she tried right her head and calm down, a teenaged mother and her newborn child entered the Haven.

Molly began to panic when she noticed Ashley look over at the young mother. There was no mistaking the thin hair, the sores all over her body, and the dull eyes. This was not in the plan, Molly was supposed to find the murderer by body language and suspicious behavior alone and tell Sherlock. But Molly knew things had gone wrong the moment the teen and her baby walked in.

Sadly Molly was right, as a few minutes later she realized just what she had drank. It seemed their murderer was mixing things up, because that sure as hell was not your everyday sleeping aid. She fumbled to reach into her shirt for the phone, but before she could slip inside Molly found blackness creeping around the edges of her vision, and then nothing.

* * *

Author's Note: Ok, so besides the preface this is probably the shortest chapter…and the crappiest too. Sorry, I just couldn't seem to get the last half to work no matter how much I played with it. Hopefully the other two will be better.

Now, as I said, two more chapters and then this one is done. I do have another story I am working on that I hope to post as soon as I finish with this one, it is a Great Mouse Detective inspired Sherlolly, and will be filled with lots of cute Sherlock with child moments, as well as sweet Sherlolly moments.

Now, I am getting a tooth out tomorrow, and it has to be cut out and because of my panic disorder I have to be put under. Anyway, the fact is between that and the pain meds I will be on for a bit, I most likely will not post anything for a week or two, because you really do not want to read anything I write while on medication.

Next Chapter: Sherlock worries, Molly stalls, Too late?

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	11. Hush,Baby,My Dolly,I Pray You Don't Cry

Chapter Ten: Hush, Baby, My Dolly, I Pray You Don't Cry

* * *

Molly blinked her eyes, banishing the heaviness that always seemed to accompany hospital grade sleeping aid. Through the fogginess that still lingered, she wondered how the hell had their murderer gotten a hold of such a sedative. She shook her head, trying to rouse herself enough to think clearly.

When she could finally open her eyes without seeing everything through a fog, she tried to sit up only to find she had been tied by the wrists and ankles to an old, broken bed. She twisted her hands about, internally sighing in relief when she realized what held her to the bed seemed to be no more than torn bits of sheets. She figured if she worked at it enough she would eventually be able to break free, though she knew there would be damage.

She began pulling and twisting, trying to loosen the fibers as she looked about the room. Ashley had taken her to an abandoned flat, and by the crumbling walls growing moss, Molly doubted anyone would be living near enough by to hear her if she called out.

But for all the wear and tear of the building; the broken furniture and rain sodden floor, what really made her stomach churn was the small bassinet beside her bed. Though she couldn't see in it, she was sure the baby from before was tucked inside; and Molly didn't know if it was alive or dead.

* * *

The longer that Molly didn't contact him, the more Sherlock grew worried. Everything had been planned down to the time Molly was supposed to meet up with them outside of the small restaurant him, John and Lestrade were waiting at. It was now an hour past and it was taking everything in Sherlock not to go rushing off to the Haven and bust down its doors to find her.

Not only had there been no contact from Molly, but his Network had reported seeing nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed that the workers of the Haven had not altered their routine; the same people went in and out, the same vehicles came and left, everything seemed the same.

For the hundredth time in the past five minutes, Sherlock slipped his mobile from his pocket and flicked on the screen. Only instead of futilely checking his messages, he dialed a number and waited for the man on the other end to answer.

_"Nothing has changed since you sent me that text ten minutes ago."_

"That is the problem. Molly was supposed to be back by now, she's an hour late." Sherlock ignored the looks being thrown at him by both John and Lestrade, and tried to focus on not tossing his phone across the street.

_"I have it on good authority that women are usually late, maybe she is just chatting."_

"And maybe you would enjoy a bullet to the brain. Look Mycroft, now is not the time for joking, something is wrong." Sherlock never could understand why people called him insensitive; he guessed they had never met his brother.

_"No, I guess you wouldn't find it funny. I never thought I would see the day; Mummy will be so delighted."_

"What are you talking about?" He wasn't sure this was the time to be having…whatever the hell the conversation they were having. Though short of screaming into the phone for him to shut up or actually tossing the phone away, he doubted there was any way out of it.

_"Well, she has been going on and on about getting on in age and wanting grandchildren before she dies."_

"Say one more word Mycroft, just one more word."

_"Relax Sherlock, Ms Hooper entered into the building unharmed, and she has yet to be seen leaving. I have men posted as well as I am sure have you, until we have true reason to worry I would suggest you calm down."_

"Listen to Mycroft, if anything happens to Molly because of your lack of action know that I will make your life a living hell." Sherlock snarled into the phone, uncaring of what his friends thought of him at the moment. All that he cared about was getting Molly back safe and sound.

_"You already do, Brother Dear. Goodbye."_ The phone clicked off without another word from Mycroft. Not that either of them wanted to prolong the conversation.

Stuffing his mobile back into his pocket, Sherlock leaned down to pick up the bag he had insisted on bringing. He was thankful that he refused to rely solely on his brother's men, and had taken Molly's safety into his own hands. After pulling out his laptop, he turned it on and quickly clicked onto the MePhone site, typing in the password he had created for the smartphone he had given Molly earlier.

"Sherlock, what is that?" John leaned over the table, blinking as he watched a GPS map pull up. This was something he was sure was not in the plan, or at least the plan Sherlock had discussed with him.

"I gave Molly a new mobile before we left. I'm using it to track her." As though it would hurry it up, Sherlock glowered at the screen. Why did the bloody thing always take so long when he actually needed it?

"Why do we need to track her? What happened?" John knew Molly was late, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't worried; just not enough to jump into action. Sherlock had been checking in with his Network as well as his brother every few minutes, and Molly had yet to be seen leaving the building. Maybe he just didn't want to think about it, but John wanted to believe that Molly was either determined to identify the murderer, or that she had gotten caught up in talking and lost track of time.

"She has been in there for far longer than she should have." Sherlock tapped his fingers on top of the table, hitting the cheap plastic harder and harder the longer the GPS took to load.

"Maybe she is just being thorough, you know Molly." John knew Molly was almost obsessive when it came to details; as evidenced by the intricate work she put into her disguise.

"Something is wrong, John." He knew Molly better than any of them, he knew that she would never be caught up in conversation with some stranger. Molly was a bit of an introvert and dealt with social anxieties. It didn't paralyze her, but it made it harder for her to just randomly strike up a conversation with a stranger. Also, Sherlock was sure she would have contacted him if she was going to be late.

"We are all worried about her but…" John snapped his mouth shut as Sherlock quickly turned his laptop around and shoved it at him.

"And I was right. She is no longer at the Haven." Sherlock slipped out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft with the address on the screen before stuffing it back and pulling John's gun; much to John's surprise, from the waist of his trousers.

John and Lestrade watched as Sherlock hailed down a taxi, gun still in hand. It was amazing that he actually succeeded.

"I thought you locked your gun away?" Greg pulled out his own phone, ready to call for backup. Though he doubted the murderer stood a chance against Sherlock, not with the way he looked. It was actually scary.

"I did, but it's Sherlock. I'm not sure there has been a lock made that he couldn't pick." What really got him was the fact that he had been sure when he left that morning that his gun was still locked safely away. Now he wondered just how long his friend had the thing.

The two men ran after Sherlock as he slipped into the taxi, sitting down beside him. Lestrade quickly called for backup, sure that Sherlock wouldn't wait, and snapped his phone shut.

"We really should wait for backup, and you shouldn't even be coming!" He understood, at least he thought he did. John had told him about the strange events going on with Sherlock and Molly, and he guessed if John was right and something romantic was going on between them his friend had every right to be worried.

"Look, you both can wait if you want, but I'm going to get Molly. I promised I would keep her safe, and that is what I plan on doing. Now, are you going to come with me or not?" Sherlock leaned forward and handed a quickly scrawled note with the address to the cabbie, not caring at the moment what his two friends did.

"Damn it! Let's go." John shut the door and nodded to the cabbie, waiting until they were well on their way before speaking again.

"How did she even leave without anyone seeing her? I mean, Scotland Yard, Mycroft and you have several men watching the place." That was why he hadn't been worried before Sherlock had shown him the GPS. All the victims had been found in abandoned buildings, so as long as Molly was within the walls of the Haven she was safe.

"It's easy enough to smuggle things out under people's noses. It could've been a disguise; change of clothing and a hat with her hair tucked up inside. My people have mentioned several donation trucks coming and going; boxes moving both ways. If you know what you are doing you can commit murder in plain sight and no one would question it." Why hadn't he thought to question it himself? Molly was quite a petite woman, easy enough to move about without too much effort. He should have instructed his Network to watch the trucks more closely.

Sherlock looked out of his window, effectively cutting off his friends. He had promised to make Mycroft's life a living hell should anything happen to Molly, but he knew it would be his own life; his life that would be a hell without her in it.

* * *

Molly's wrists ached with the amount of tugging and twisting she had been doing, and she swore that the strips of sheet had only gotten tighter the more she pulled. She could feel the warm trickle of blood running down her arms where she had rubbed her wrists raw.

During everything she had also been berating herself. She shouldn't have actually drank any of the tea she had been given, she should have seen something wrong in Ashley; the could've/should've/would'ves were endless. She knew that it wasn't her fault, but still she was currently tied to a bed by a mad woman that wanted to kill her and a baby; the time for rational thought had past. Everything was panic at the moment.

By the time that Ashley finally appeared Molly was on the verge of crying. The pain and panic were getting to her and she was having a hard time calming herself. Though once Ashley entered the room, she found it to be like a bucket of cold water. She didn't have time to panic.

The woman didn't look angry, or even crazy; as one would think a child murderer would. She looked very sweet and inviting with her bright smile. There was something very motherly about her; warm and welcoming. Still Molly couldn't help the fear that rose in her while she watched Ashley pick up the child and rock it gently in her arms; all the while singing a lullaby.

Ashley sat down on the edge of the bed, her hip touching Molly's. With the baby still in her arms, she reached out with one hand and laid it on Molly's stomach.

Molly looked the best she could at the child, sighing when she could see the rapid, gentle movement of the chest. The child was still alive, but obviously had already been drugged.

"Shh, don't worry, I'm going to save all of you. I will make sure that no one ever touches either of you again." Ashley rubbed her hand in small circles over Molly's belly, a kind and warm smile on her face as she looked down at the bruised woman on the bed.

Frightened, Molly knew she had to do something to keep her and the baby alive as long as possible. She felt sick at the woman's touch, but held herself from twisting to remove her hand, and instead gave her a watery smile.

"I'm not worried, I know you will keep us safe. I'm just a little afraid of the dark, could you maybe just talk to me for a while?" Molly spoke with a hushed voice, sounding more like a child herself.

"There is nothing to be frightened of in the dark." Ashley widened out the circles, looking down at the woman pityingly.

"I know, but I still am. Please Ashley, tell me a story, it would help me feel safe." Molly thought she would be sick, and it wasn't just the aftereffects of the sedative. She thought Ashley was going to refuse, and quickly thought up several ways in which she could stall her. Thankfully after a moment Ashley gave a great sigh and a smile.

"Oh very well."

Molly knew if she could just get her talking long enough someone would come, they had to. There were too many watching the Haven; and she knew once Sherlock realized something was wrong…well she had seen before what he would do for friends.

"I know one, it is about a handsome goblin king that had fallen in love with a simple mortal girl…."

* * *

When they finally reached the abandoned building where Molly was, Sherlock wasted no time at all. He couldn't wait for Mycroft or Lestrade's men, he already feared that he may have been too late. Though that didn't bear thinking about; not if he wanted to be able to think clearly.

* * *

Molly watched on helpless as Ashley rocked the baby, the sedative still keeping the child under. Ashley had finished her story moments before, and no matter what Molly did or said she couldn't get the woman talking again. She had simply said it was time to go to sleep.

Molly's heart sped up as she watched as Ashley took care to swaddle the baby, making sure every fold perfect. Once she had finished she reached inside the bassinet and picked up a thick piece of cloth.

"Stop! Please, don't!" Molly raged against her bonds, trying to break free before Ashley could press the fabric to the child's nose and mouth.

"Hush, don't worry, very soon you both will be safe. I promise no one will hurt you ever again." With a simply fold done on the cloth, Ashley took it in her hand and looked down at the small baby and began to sing.

"No!"

* * *

Sherlock ran blindly through the building, both John and Lestrade on his heels. He thought his heart would explode the moment he heard Molly scream, and he moved the fastest he had ever in his life until he reached the door her voice was coming from.

Not bothering with the doorknob, Sherlock threw himself at the warped door. The old wood gave way and he flew into the room, his eyes taking in everything within seconds. He didn't stop to think as he rushed forward and snatched the baby away from the only woman standing in the room.

"I won't let you hurt her!" Ashley tried to reach for the child, hissing at Sherlock. Moments later John and Lestrade had rushed in, neither hesitating to incapacitate Ashley, who at that point was spitting mad and trying to grab the child and go for Sherlock's neck alternately.

After checking to make sure the baby was alive, Sherlock placed the child carefully back in the bassinet and rushed forward to release Molly. She immediately wrapped her bloody arms around his neck, and with no care about where she was, kissed Sherlock. More surprising to not only Molly, but John and Lestrade as well, Sherlock kissed her back thoroughly before pulling away.

"Are you alright, are you hurt?" Sherlock looked Molly over, pulling her arms down and examining her wrists. Seeing the deep red groves and small lines of blood, Sherlock felt his own boil. He wanted to turn around and show that woman what happens when you hurt someone he cared for, but he held himself in check and pulled out a handkerchief and started cleaning her wounds.

"I'm fine." Molly pulled one of her hands free and set it on his cheek. She leaned in and rested her forehead against his, smiling and crying at the same time.

"I'm fine, now that you are here."

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry for it being a while since I updated this. Though my jaw doesn't hurt too much at all, I've been feeling out of sorts the past few days and just haven't been able to think on this.

Sorry if the ending here is a little…eh…I couldn't seem to get it to work the way I wanted it to. I might go back later on and try to rework it.

Anyway, there is one more chapter after this, and then I will be posting my Great Mouse Detective inspired Sherlolly "And Isn't This A Crime"

Next Chapter: Things settle down, a knife, a kiss, and a good enough reason.

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

* * *

Molly smiled, holding back the urge to laugh as she watched Sherlock participate in a rather intense staring contest with Toby. It was funny really, the two hated each other; both being Alpha males and vying for her attention. Though he would never admit it. She couldn't feel sorry for Sherlock, it had been his idea to move her into 221B after everything, and that meant he had to deal with her cat.

She was currently sitting on the sofa, curled up with the cup of tea Mrs Hudson insisted she drink. It had only been a few days since she had been kidnapped; her wrists still swollen and sore, were on the mend, but she wasn't sure her mind was there yet.

Nightmares plagued her dreams, images of dingy walls and dirty sheets waking her in the middle of the night. She knew it was normal to experience such things after going through an ordeal like she had, but she couldn't help but feel weak for it. Of course Sherlock wouldn't hear any of that, using John as an example; he still experienced night terrors of the war and no one would ever call him weak, and no one would her.

John had given her the contact information of his therapist, but she had yet to make the call. She did plan on it, of course she did, but at the moment all she wanted was the comfort of her friends.

Molly finally gave into the urge to laugh just as John and Mary walked into the room, several bags of takeout in their hands. It was something they started the day after she had been rescued. According to Mary, Molly shouldn't have to cook and Sherlock couldn't cook, so it was only logical that they bring them food.

While Mary pulled out plates in the kitchen to portion out the meal; something that she refused to allow Molly to help with, John flopped down in the chair that everyone still considered his. He rolled his eyes at his friend, he wished he could say walking in on a staring contest with a genius and a cat was rare for him, but sadly he couldn't. What was worse was how many times Sherlock actually lost the battle.

"I talked to Lestrade this morning. I guess Ashley killed herself last night, somehow she had gotten a hold of a knife and had split her arms, wrist to elbow.

"He figures that it has to be one of his own men, but after the deaths of so many children everyone seems alright with reporting it as an oversight in their search. Officially Ashley Elsberry had a hidden knife on her person that hadn't been accounted for and she had used it once she had been fully alone." John ran a hand over his lips, peering over to see how Molly took the news. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, a relived smile, a blank face, but what he found was a welling of tears as she bit her lip to quash them.

Everyone was silent after that announcement, not really sure if they were sorry or not. Ashley had been very troubled, but she had still killed so many children.

"I've been looking into Ashley's past lately." Sherlock broke the silence along with the staring contest with Toby, looking up at the room around him. He felt his stomach clench at Molly's wet eyes, but he knew she would be able to handle it, to pull herself back together.

"She had been abused, both physically and sexually by her stepfather when she was a child, and her mother had been a drug addict. She had been sixteen when she left home; from there she went from home to home, man to man until she was nineteen and married a man named Tyler Elsberry.

"Tyler had been a drug and alcohol addict and had beaten on her just as her step father had; she was twenty-five when she had given birth to a child, a daughter.

"A daughter that had died one night when she was only six months old. The autopsy revealed the child to have been suffocated, it was ruled accidental and product of the child rolling over in her sleep and into a bundled up blanket." Sherlock knew he would have to have a talk with Mrs Johnston on background checks for her volunteers; the psych evaluation for Ashley should have been a huge red flag.

"It wasn't an accident, was it?" Molly shivered, picking up her cup to take in a large drink of her cooling tea.

"It was most likely either Tyler in a fit of rage or the beginning of Ashley's obsession with protecting a child from the pain and hurt she had experienced her whole life. Turns out it had been about both her and her child after all." He had known there was something familiar about the way the children had been killed. He had remembered reading about the case, but after the ruling he had deleted the information as it seemed useless at the time.

"She had never had the chance, had she?" Molly leaned over, placing her cup on the table. No one answered her, but she hadn't been expecting one. Ashley had been given a bad lot from the beginning, Molly didn't know whether to hate her or pity her.

"Can we please talk about something else, it is sad what happened; for everyone involved, but isn't something I really want to mull over. Mostly when I'm about to eat. Remember, no murder talk at the dinner table." Mary walked back into the room with several plates and a pinched expression on her face. It seemed funny to think she had to actually make that rule, but when it came to Sherlock and her husband it was necessary.

"We are not at the dinner table." Sherlock took his offered plate, though everyone knew he would only pick at it.

"That is true, but your table currently is covered in something pink and sticky, and I really don't want to know what it is." Mary handed off a plate to Molly before sitting down beside her. She might have been a bit more protective of her friend, but Mary had to admit that Sherlock was doing a good job at taking care of her.

"It was an experiment."

"Alright you two, that is enough. Can we just eat?" Molly stabbed at her plate, a little more irritated at the two of them than usual.

For a few minutes everyone was silent, uncomfortable at upsetting Molly. For her part she wished they would all just stop with the tiptoeing around her, she was a grown woman and she would be able to move past everything. In time at least. She was about to take another bite when she remembered something she had wanted to bring up to Sherlock.

"I visited the Haven yesterday to apologize to the director for my deception, and I found out something rather interesting. Lilly, the baby I had been kidnapped with, and her mother Emma have found themselves a rather rich benefactor. They are currently being housed in a rather nice flat, Emma is receiving support for her drug addiction and little Lilly has everything a girl could ever want." Molly pretty much already knew who was responsible, but the roll of Sherlock's eyes and shrug of his shoulders confirmed it.

Both John and Mary looked to Sherlock, but he just scoffed.

"I didn't have anything to with it, Mycroft just has a soft spot for children even though he will never admit to it."

John and Molly just chuckled, the two brothers were more alike than they would ever like to be.

* * *

Molly leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching Sherlock work. The rest of the evening had progressed as it did every night. They finished eating, Sherlock and Mary had a bit of a banter while John tried to wrangle in both his friend and his wife. All the while Molly had sat back and contemplated on the new dynamics of her circle of friends. Sherlock and Mary would never be best friends, but at least they could spend time around each other without committing murder.

"I should probably be moving back into my own flat." It wasn't that she really wanted to go, but there really was no reason to stay. Her wrists were healing well, and she would be calling the therapist in the morning to schedule an appointment.

Sherlock froze for a moment, before continuing with his experiments, mumbling a reply practically under his breath.

Feeling daring, Molly walked up behind him, placing one of her hands on his shoulder as she slipped the other one into his hair.

"Unless of course there is a reason why I shouldn't leave." She scratched her nails along his scalp, feeling him shiver at her actions.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and pulled her hands away so he could turn in his seat, Molly finally coming face to face with him as she stood and he sat.

Without a word he slipped a hand through her hair and pulled her in for a heated kiss. Molly stumbled, but regained her balance by placing her hands on his shoulders. She had never expected him to actually initiate a kiss between them. She had been trying to convince herself that he had only kissed her after she had been saved because of some adrenaline rush. Only now all that convincing had been tossed out the window as Sherlock pulled her in between his legs so he could more easily deepen the kiss.

After a few moments he pulled back, running a single finger across her lips as he cocked his head with a single brow lifted.

"Yeah, that is a pretty good reason."

* * *

Author's Note: Oh look, I finished! Can't believe I actually finished it though. Hope everyone enjoyed it.

For all those that are planning on reading "And Isn't This A Crime" I will be posting the preface either tonight or tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone that had read, reviewed, fav'd and followed. It really makes me smile when I get an alert.

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**


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